Unfinished Business
by reciprocity
Summary: Sorry for the rather delayed update. Casefile and GSR: An series of unsolved cases from Sara's past comes back to haunt her, one week after her near-arrest.
1. Chapter 1

Here's a post-finale fic. As always, thanks go out to my betas (Anne and Ash) for helping me so much with this. Reviews and comments are always welcome.

Title: Unfinished Business

Chapter: 1 of ??

Disclaimer: The characters are not mine. Period. Please don't sue me.

Archiving: Just let me know.

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It had been one week since Sara last entered the CSI building, but to her it felt much longer.

Last week, after Grissom had taken her home, the two had a decidedly candid talk. With other people it would have turned into a major fight but Grissom and Sara were different. There was no yelling, but it wasn't needed. All the hurt of the past two years came out then and there.

Despite all that they had been through, the spark that had made Grissom call Sara four years ago when he needed her was still there. Fate had tried hard to extinguish it, but it had failed. Fate, though, had come mightily close.

An agreement had been made then. It had been unspoken, but it wasn't any less sacred. Grissom and Sara had agreed – for now – to set aside whatever romantic feelings they had for each other. For now, they would rebuild the friendship they once had.

_Easier said than done, Sidle. Can you really put your feelings on hold again?_

_Of course you can. You did so for four years, right?_

_Yeah, and look where it got you._

Sara shook her head as she pushed the door leading to the labs. If it were any other man, she would have dumped him and torn his heart to pieces – much like she had done with Hank.

However, this was Grissom. Sara could never break his heart – probably because it would hurt her as much as it would him. Even in her darkest hours – the lonely days spent alone in her apartment, when nothing could wash away the pain – Sara had never, ever thought that her love for Gil Grissom was somehow, someway, misplaced.

And so, Sara let the pain that Grissom inflicted on her soul continue. The only balm was the knowledge that he was hurting worse than she was.

Sitting down on the bench in front of her locker, she leaned forward and rested her head on the cold metal surface. _How could things between us have become so messed up?_

_Here's to making this work this time. Hopefully._

---

Gil Grissom had spent the last hour in his office. To an outside observer, he had spent the time just sitting behind his desk, eyes focused on the various objects inside the office that was his sanctuary.

However, the placid exterior hid a mind which was in turmoil. The phone call a week ago had bothered Grissom more than anything else in his life. _Sara? DUI? No, that can't be her. She would never do something so stupid. It seemed like such a bad dream – except that it's true._

He closed his eyes as the thoughts came to his mind. _I knew she was hurting. I just didn't know how badly until last week. If only I knew... so know what do I do. I don't know. I really don't know._

_It's not hopeless. We both agreed to give it one more shot. That's all I can ask for right now._

_Don't mess this up, Gil._

Grissom was still deep in his thoughts when the voice of Catherine Willows intruded into his thoughts. "Lost in your thoughts again?" Grissom looked up to see Catherine sitting in one of the chairs on the other side of his desk.

"Yes, Catherine?" There was a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"How long have we known each other?"

"More than ten years. Why?"

"Is there anything going on that we should know about?"

"I fail to see the point of this line of questioning."

Catherine sighed in frustration. "Sara, our resident workaholic, all of a sudden takes a week off. At the same time, you take three days off. Every day since then, I've found you before shift, in your office, sitting there lost in thought. Yet, you say nothing's wrong. Doesn't take a CSI to tell something is wrong."

"Catherine, even if something was wrong, it's... personal."

"You mean Sara."

Grissom stared coldly at Catherine. It was all the answer she needed, before she went on.

"Look, you may not think people notice, but they do. They can see you're miserable. They can see she's miserable. They don't know why, but I do. As a friend, Gil, I'm telling you, you've got to fix this. Otherwise, she'll threaten to quit. And this time, it'll be for good." By the time Catherine finished, she was standing, her hands on Grissom's desk.

He raised his head and icily glared at the blonde. _This is none of your business, Catherine. This is between me and Sara._

Catherine's gaze dropped to the floor in surrender. "You're both hopeless, you know that?" she said.

Grissom didn't answer.

Catherine moved towards the door and left the room, shaking her head the whole time. The door slammed shut, leaving Grissom alone with his thoughts once again.

---

The Denali carrying Nick and Sara to their crime scene halted beside the coroner's van. Nick got out from behind the steering wheel and went to get their silver field kits. Meanwhile, Sara went to talk to Brass.

Several minutes later, Nick and Sara strode over to their crime scene. A resident walking through a park had noticed someone sleeping on a bench. Knowing that there was a homeless shelter a few blocks away the would-be Samaritan had tried to awaken him – only to realize he was dead.

The flashlights cut through the darkness as the two CSIs examined their victim. He was a male, with the unruly hair and beard typical of many of the homeless wandering Las Vegas. His head was propped up on one of the armrests – it was being used as a pillow. At first glance, it appeared to be a simple case of an alcoholic meeting a tragic death.

However, Nick and Sara were both trained not to trust appearances – their job was to carefully gather and analyze all the available evidence. It would either confirm the first impression or reveal a deeper truth. In this case, it was the latter. Sara noticed it first.

"Nick, if you were going to sleep, why would you put your hand under your body?" Sara said, gesturing with her flashlight towards the vic's left hand. It was pinned under his torso, as if it was hiding something.

"No way the vic put that hand there. Body was posed," Nick replied.

David, the assistant coroner, approached the pair. "You need any help?"

Sara turned. "Yeah. Vic's arm is under his body, and it's probably better if you guys give us a hand so we can see if there's anything unusual."

"Okay."

Sara moved out of the way as David and another person from the coroner's office lifted the body up just a bit. Nick was able to move the arm up to a more natural position quite easily – there had not been enough time for rigor mortis to set in.

When the hand came into view, Sara immediately noticed there was something loosely tied to one of the fingers. Without much effort, she was able to pull it off the hand so she could examine it more closely.

It was a clear plastic bag, not unlike what they used to bag evidence in. Inside was a postcard-sized picture of a waterfall; on the back was some writing. Sara gasped when she realized what it was. Nick, who had been watching David take away the body, turned immediately, a look of befuddlement on his face.

Sara noticed Nick's reaction. "I've seen this before," she said.

Nick was still confused. "A dead drunk or druggie on a park bench? Happens all the time."

"No, not that. This," she said while gesturing to the postcard in her hands.

He took a step towards Sara so he could clearly see what she was holding. "Postcard of a waterfall, in a plastic bag tied to the vic's finger. Has to be a unique signature. Where'd you see it before?"

She didn't miss a beat. "San Francisco."

---

Nick was walking from the morgue to join Sara in the lab. Robbins hadn't been able to find anything on their victim. They had a cause of death: cardiac arrest. However, they had no idea why his heart had stopped beating. No toxins had been found in his blood. The victim had been in reasonably good health, with no underlying health problems.

He found Sara examining a syringe they had found under the bench. Looking up, there was a tone of exasperation in her voice. "I hope you've had better luck than I have, because I have nothing."

"Cause of death is heart failure. Some bruising in the back of his neck, and a puncture leading to a vein in his neck consistent with a syringe. "

"Well, if he was injected with this syringe, I have no idea what it was. I've tried just about everything I know and all the tests have come back negative. As far as I can tell, the only thing in this syringe was air." She paused, suddenly realizing that she had all the pieces of the puzzle.

There was a special glint in her eyes. It was something that Nick had only seen on two people. Sara was one.

Grissom was the other.

"He died of cardiac arrest, Nick?"

"Yeah, why?"

"If someone did inject air into his veins, it could impede blood flow, leading to low blood pressure, arrythmia, and finally, cardiac arrest."

"He died from air in his veins?"

"It's certainly as plausible as death by chocolate, right?"

"You got that right." After a moment, Nick continued. "You told me you've seen the signature in San Francisco, but you haven't told me the details."

"Yeah, yeah, I was going to, but... I wanted to let Grissom know the details of it the same time you did."

"Okay. Have you seen him around yet?"

"No, but, I was about to look for him." After Nick gave her a questioning glare, she went on. "Alright, I was about to get him, okay?" She slid her stool out and moved towards the door. Turning to face Nick, she had her hands in mock surrender. "Okay?"

Nick watched Sara through the glass windows as she went off in search of Grissom. As he did so, there was one question in his mind. _What in the world is going on between those two?_

It was a question he had been asking for four years. He was no closer to an answer now as he was back then.

---

Grissom was just leaving the DNA lab when Sara came up to him. "We have a problem," she said.

_You have no idea,_ he thought. Keeping a professional demeanor, he moved down the corridor with Sara following beside him. "What's wrong with your DB?"

"It's a serial." Grissom stopped in his tracks right next to the room where Nick was. Sara entered the room first, followed by Grissom.

Grissom spoke first. "Sara tells me you're dealing with a serial. Explain."

Nick answered. "Dead drunk on a park bench. Apparent OD, but tox screen came back clean. We also found a syringe, but as far as we can tell the only thing in it was air." He paused before continuing.

"We found this postcard tied to the victim's left finger." Sara slid the bagged postcard over to Grissom, as Nick continued. "It has a waterfall on the front. On the back, we have a sentence written on the back. 'Let the games begin.' Sara recognized it and said it was from San Francisco."

"Wait," Grissom said. "What was the cause of death?"

"Robbins says it was cardiac arrest, but gave no specific reason. Sara thinks the syringe was filled with air and injected into the vic's veins," Nick answered.

"Creative, but plausible. Go on," Grissom said.

"We had a series of crimes in San Fran just before I came out here," Sara said. "Just about everything – murder, rape, robbery, you name it. The only things in common were a postcard, just like this one, left at every scene, and the fact that we found zero evidence at every scene. We worked double, triple shifts – but it was still a dry hole."

"Ever give him a name?" This came from Nick.

"Yeah. The Waterfall Criminal, after the postcard he left at every scene."

"You should have called him Moriarty." Sara and Nick turned to face the source of the voice – Grissom.

He went on. "This isn't just any waterfall. Reichenbach Falls, in the Alps. In literature, it's where Sherlock Holmes and Professor Moriarty plunged to their apparent deaths."

Sara got it. "Our criminal thinks he's Professor Moriarty."

"The 'Napoleon of Crime', Holmes said of Moriarty. Able to outsmart all but the greatest detective in the land. The writing on the back means he's daring us."

"Daring us to do what?" asked Nick.

"To do what only Holmes was able to do," said Grissom.

"To catch him," said Sara.

"Or try."

---

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

The second chapter of this post-finale story. Thanks to my beta readers Anne and Ash, they deserve as much credit as I do. Reviews and comments are always appreciated.

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Catherine and Warrick were on the way to hand over their evidence to Greg when they saw Grissom talking to the DNA tech. From the way Greg was nodding, it was pretty clear that his end of the conversation consisted entirely of "yes sir." The pair waited until Grissom was out of earshot before entering Greg's domain.

"Hey, Greggo. What did you do to piss Grissom off again?" Warrick asked.

"Wasn't me, Warrick. Evidently there's some case that has both Griss and Sara up in a tizzy. Beyond that, I don't know."

Catherine and Warrick's eyebrows went up. _What the hell could upset both of them?_

Just then, the brunette entered the room. Greg's hands went up in surrender. "I already had Grissom in here-"

"Relax, Greg, I'm not here to chew you out." Turning to the two other CSIs, Sara said, "Grissom wants you in his office ASAP." She didn't wait for a response before heading off.

The two exchanged a look of disbelief. Seeing their response, Greg spoke up. "Now you believe me?"

"Oh yeah. Here, more DNA for you to process," Catherine said while handing over some swabs. "Get back to me when you can, OK?" Greg nodded, and soon the pair headed off towards Grissom's office.

---

Grissom was on the phone when Catherine and Warrick joined the meeting. Sara was already on one of the chairs going over the coroner's prelim, while Nick was just leaning against one of the many metal shelves inside.

Seeing the two enter, Grissom waved them over. Catherine took the other chair, while Warrick stood off to the side.

As Grissom hung up, Catherine asked him a question. "Grissom, what's this about a case getting you and Sara all worked up?"

"That's what we were about to discuss, Catherine," Grissom said. "Sara?"

As Sara laid out the whole case file, Grissom was thinking quietly. _Why now? Why Las Vegas? So many questions, but so few answers._

When Sara was finished briefing everyone on their Moriarty imitator, Warrick spoke up from the side. "Is the case file on the way from California?"

Grissom answered. "That was the San Francisco CSI supervisor I was talking to on the phone. The case file is being sent electronically as we speak, and they have also agreed to send over what physical evidence they have. Not a whole lot, but they'll let us see if there's anything new."

Everyone nodded. Grissom gave out their tasks for the remainder of the shift. "Sara and I will work any new cases from this Moriarty wannabe. The three of you will have to cover for any other crimes that take place."

"You sure you don't need any help?" asked Nick. "This could get real big real quick."

Grissom shook his head. "Not yet. If we need any help, we'll get it."

There were no other questions. Grissom dismissed them all, except for Sara. "Now what?" she asked.

"First step to any serial is understanding them. We know that our suspect fashions himself after Professor Moriarty. That's a start. We need to go over both your current case and the San Francisco ones." Grissom glanced at his watch. "This could take a while. Up for a double?"

Sara couldn't help but smirk. "Me? Always."

---

Catherine, Brass, and Warrick were at a nearby bar. It was a favorite hangout for graveyard shift personnel from both the CSI lab and the police. Inside, it felt like it was ten in the evening, though it was more like ten in the morning.

"So, what'd you think? Is this for real?" Catherine asked Brass.

"Who, our super-crook wannabe? I dunno. Could be." Brass took a swig from his beer. "What I really want to know is how come Grissom and Sara are working the case together."

"Jim Brass the gossip. Who knew?" said Warrick.

"Hey, I'm just looking out for him as a friend. And it is a legitimate question, you know."

"Yeah, well, if you can figure _them_ out, you've done something me, Warrick, and Nicky haven't. Good luck," Catherine said.

"It's not that difficult, really. Boy likes girl. Girl likes boy. So far so good," said Brass while waving over another round.

"But boy doesn't know what to do. And he is the girl's boss. Baaaaad," Warrick noted.

"Very bad," Catherine agreed. "Remember back when Gil was on his safari out in Jackpot?"

"Yeah? So?" Brass asked.

"Well, he made me do a ton of paperwork, so I was in his office when I noticed this unsealed envelope in the drawer. Guess what it was?"

"Umm, tickets for Celine? He does get them, you know," Warrick said.

Catherine playfully swatted Warrick. "Well, no. Besides, he doesn't actually watch, he just sells them to David over at the morgue. Anyway – it was a resignation letter addressed to the Sheriff and Director Covallo."

"What, you mean he's thinking of quitting? That's not the Grissom I know."

"Not from CSI, Brass. Just from being supervisor. I don't think a week goes by without him complaining about all the administrative crap he has to deal with. Hell, I'm convinced he butts heads with the bosses just so they'll demote him."

Warrick opened another bottle. "Isn't he worried about being fired?"

"Nah. Even if he is, he'll probably get a dozen offers from other labs just like that."

"Here's what I don't get. Suppose that he is willing to put his career on the line, that he's ready to quit. Why hasn't he done anything so far? Cold feet?"

Brass reached over for some peanuts. "Short version? Yeah. Back when Griss was a brand new level three, he was a lot like Sara is right now. Workaholic, smart as hell. Everyone knew he was going places. Just starting to build a rep as the bugman."

Warrick's eyebrows went up. "You mean Griss actually had emotions back then?"

"That's the problem with you CSIs, you're not good with people. It's not that Grissom doesn't have emotions, he just doesn't feel the need to parade it before everyone else. Ever seen him interview a vic? He's better at calming them down than anyone else I know."

"And the point of this is....?" Warrick asked.

"Don't you get it? There's only one thing that can scare Gil Grissom, something that can send him scurrying behind those emotional walls of his."

Catherine completed the thought. "Someone who reminds him of himself."

---

Back at the lab, Grissom rubbed his forehead with his fingers. He could feel a migraine starting to take a hold on his head, and he needed his medication. Now.

Sara had been caught up in her own reading and was startled when Grissom almost ran over to the nearby sink. After he was done taking his pills, he turned to face the brunette. Sara noticed his face was somewhat flustered. "What happened?"

"Migraine." He carefully walked back to his chair before taking a seat. "I can't do this anymore. I'm getting too old."

"Have we found anything new? We have spent the past few hours going in circles." There was a tinge of frustration in her voice.

"Have we considered that we may not be dealing with just one suspect?"

"We always assumed that we were dealing with a lone psychopath. No proof either way, though."

"Pathologies of his crimes are too different. The same criminal engages in rape and masterful thievery? Unlikely."

"I, I don't know." Sara tossed the folder she was reading onto Grissom's desk. "I hate this. We're just spinning our wheels here, can't we do something?"

Grissom shook his head. "The evidence gathered out in San Francisco won't get here for a few hours. We've gone over all the papers they sent – twice, if I remember correctly. Not much evidence from your recent case, and we've checked that out as well."

Sara yawned. "I know, it's just that..."

"You want to do something. I know." He glanced over to his shelves. "Maybe we can."

Her gaze followed Grissom's, wondering what he was looking at. It was something red, in a small plastic container.

Red Creeper.

When she turned to face him, there was a look of shock in her face. "Serious cases require serious forensic tools," he said, with a grin beginning to appear on his face.

"I swear, when you die, there'll be a line in your will about Red Creeper. 'I hereby bequeath the formula for Red Creeper to the Las Vegas Crime Lab.'"

"What, and let Ecklie have it? Not a chance," he said. "I'm not going to give you the whole formula. I'll show you the procedure, but not the material list."

"You do know that I can figure out the materials quickly enough. You really want the secret of Red Creeper out there?"

His eyebrow went up at her question. "Who said anything about spreading the secret?"

---

Being a criminalist in Las Vegas meant dealing with the bizarre on an almost daily basis. Where else would you see a guy in a raccoon suit being shot by accident? Still, the sight before Catherine was something she thought she'd never see.

Grissom was leaned back in his chair, sleeping. Sara, in turn, had turned the two chairs into a makeshift bed and was also sound asleep. Someone – Catherine wasn't sure who – was lightly snoring.

Not wanting to deal with the wrath of both of them, Catherine quickly but silently closed the door. She made a beeline for the locker room, but not before she ran into Greg.

"Hey, Catherine, have you seen Grissom?"

"Erm, yes, but why are you looking for him?"

"Oh. I need him to sign this authorization. I'm a tad low on some supplies, and I've put in an order to restock."

Catherine looked over the papers the DNA tech was carrying. "Greg, I wouldn't bother him right now. Unless the next doctor you want to meet is Robbins."

"He busy or mad again?"

"Yeah." _You don't want to go there, Greg. Trust me._

"Oooo-kay." Greg went back the way he had came.

Catherine grinned and shook her head as she trotted to the locker room. _Greg is so not ready to deal with what is inside Grissom's office._

Meanwhile, Grissom awoke from his slumber. Making Red Creeper was, under the best of circumstances, difficult and exacting. They had made more than Grissom usually did in one batch, and that didn't help matters either.

It had been sufficiently tiring that they had both fallen asleep soon afterwards. It was only now that he realized what it would look like to the rumor mill. He looked up to the Billy Bass above his door. It hadn't moved a bit. Grissom breathed a sigh of relief, unaware that Catherine had long figured out how to avoid the singing fish.

As if on cue, Sara started to get up. "Good evening," he dryly said.

"What?" Sara asked, slightly confused.

"Look at your watch." She did.

"Oh crap," she said as her head turned towards the floor. It was just one hour before shift.

"I can normally go three days without sleeping, you know."

"I know," he said with a touch of concern in his voice. "Get something to eat. Change clothes. I have a feeling our Moriarty will pull off something tonight. We'll need to be at 100 percent if he does."

Sara was about to protest, but Grissom didn't let her. "Please?"

_How the hell does he do it? One word from him and I'm weak-kneed. _"Okay," she said. "I might be a little late for assignments."

"Don't worry. We'll wait."

Later, Grissom realized that she didn't have to tell Sara they would wait for her. As he entered the break room, Sara was right there in her usual place.

"Good news. So far, we don't have any new scenes for tonight. For now, wrap up your cases and catch up on your paperwork." Everyone groaned at hearing the last word. Grissom continued. "Necessary evil. Sara, the evidence from San Francisco just got here, layout room. Everyone else, we're done."

---

Sara rejoined Grissom after handing off some DNA samples to Greg. While CODIS, the DNA database, had come up dry four years ago, it was possible their suspect had been entered into the database in the intervening time.

It was possible, but not likely. It was their only current lead, but it was likely it wouldn't turn up anything.

Evidence never lied, but sometimes it didn't say anything.

She noticed Grissom was on the phone with someone. He soon hung up. "That was Brass. Breaking at entering at UNLV, with a missing security guard to boot. Moriarty left a calling card."

Sara picked up the jacket she had left on the table. "I'm driving," she said.

---

To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

The third chapter of this story. Thanks to my beta readers Anne and Ash, they deserve as much credit as I do. Reviews and comments are always appreciated.

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The Denali rolled to a stop near the Marine Science building. O'Riley was waiting for the two CSIs in the lobby, alongside a professor in a white lab coat. He made the introductions.

"Professor, this is Gil Grissom and Sara Sidle from the crime lab. Grissom, Sara, this is Doctor John Strickland, head of the Marine Science department."

"Doctor Strickland, we understand there was a break-in tonight?" asked Grissom.

"Yes, we have a security system in place. I was alerted by campus security immediately after the incident."

Just then, a uniformed officer approached O'Riley. They talked for a few moments, before approaching the professor and the CSIs. "The missing guard isn't missing anymore. Uniform found him in the nearby park."

Grissom turned to Sara. "You take the body. I'll follow the professor and deal with the theft."

"Fun," Sara said, letting a hint of sarcasm into her voice. "Where is it?" she asked O'Riley.

"This way," the burly detective said. Sara followed him outside, while Grissom followed the professor up two flights of stairs and down several corridors. They stopped outside a room, which was marked with a bio-hazard warning sign.

"This is where we keep various toxins and venoms we study in our department. This is also where the theft took place," the professor explained.

Grissom began dusting the doorknob for fingerprints. He found none. He turned to the professor, who was now also wearing gloves. "Can you show me what was stolen?"

"Yes, well, I'm not sure if you are aware of the value of the materials we keep in here, Mr. Grissom! These represent millions in grant funding from various organizations-"

Grissom held up his hand, exasperated at the lecture from the professor. "I have a Ph.D. in entomology, Doctor Strickland."

The professor was surprised, to say the least. "Ah," he said.

"Yes, and I publish at least four peer-reviewed papers in various forensic journals every year."

"I see. Well, thank you for that information, Dr. Grissom." There was a new-found respect in Strickland's eyes.

The two entered the room, which was full of heavy-duty refrigerators. The cold steel gleamed under the beam of Grissom's flashlight.

"From which refrigerator did the theft take place?"

"That one." Strickland pointed to a smaller unit near the windows. Grissom approached it carefully before opening it. The professor, standing behind him, said, "Those shelves should all be full of glass containers."

"Do you know what was stolen, Doctor?"

"Oh yes. It was my personal project. Sea snake venom."

"How much of it was there?"

"Quite a lot, actually. At least two jars the size of the one in your hands," pointing towards the jar of red powder in Grissom's left hand.

The attention of both men went towards the window when they heard a loud thunderbolt. Seemingly out of nowhere, rain began falling from the sky. It kept getting stronger until the dull roar of falling rain could be heard inside.

A look of despair marked Grissom's features. "Moriarty got lucky tonight."

---

Outside, Sara was fighting to save the evidence from the dead guard's body. She had just finished taking her first photos of the body and the area when she felt drops hit her arm.

She realized immediately that they had only precious moments left before all their evidence would be lost. She took photos as fast as she could, while David and the other coroner's assistants rushed to wrap the body and put it in a body bag. Soon, she was bringing up the rear of a stream of people rushing for cover from the rain.

Sara found shelter under the building's entrance. She had been wearing a water-resistant jacket, but her hair and pants had been soaked in the deluge. All around her, people were all trying to dry themselves as best as they could.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Grissom approaching her. Discarding the jacket, she said to him, "We lost the evidence. Fibers, fingerprints, shoeprints, everything." She shook her head. "It's all gone. He got lucky, Grissom."

"Yeah." Their eyes both turned towards the park, with no words spoken between them. Thunder could be heard in the distance.

Sara broke the silence. "Did you find out what was stolen?"

"Yeah. Sea snake venom. Up to ten times more toxic than a cobra's."

"Sea snake venom? Definitely an unusual target. Where'd you find the postcard?"

"Inside the fridge, where the venom used to be. No writing on the back this time."

"Now what? Anything at the scene? Fingerprints?"

He shook his head. "No signs of forced entry and no fingerprints. Even Red Creeper can't find something that isn't there." He paused for a moment. "The body is all the evidence we have. Doctor Robbins will be the only witness we have."

"No cameras?"

"No. Sara, it's a research lab, not a nuclear weapons facility."

"I know." Sara looked at her water-soaked clothing with a touch of annoyance. "Mind if we stop by my place first? I need to change out of these. You _do_ know where I live, right?"

Grissom's voice was full of innocence. "I think I do."

"Good. Can we go now?"

The corners of Grissom's lips twitched upwards. "Sure."

---

Grissom and Doctor Robbins both stood over the body of the dead guard.

"Name is Adam Hatch. Driver's license in his wallet. 25 years old, no medical problems as far as I can see," the coroner said.

"Cause of death?"

"Apparent gunshot wound to the chest. Entry wound only, no exit wound."

"You're holding out, Albert. I can tell."

"You know me too well. Ordinarily, if there's no exit wound, the bullet or at least bullet fragments, should be inside the victim. X-ray is over there," the coroner said.

Grissom looked over the x-ray of the guard's torso. "There's no metal anywhere in here."

"That's right. Remember the DB you found at the body farm two years ago?"

Grissom turned to face the pathologist, his mouth agape. "You think it's a meat bullet? Again?" He could never forget that case, both for professional and personal reasons. _That was when I almost drove her to quit and had to send the plant as penance. How could I forget?_

"Well, it isn't exactly a secret. You did have a paper published on it, as I recall."

"Yeah, but..." His voice trailed off as he walked back to the autopsy table. "It's one of those things you expect to see only once."

"Well, I'll have to excise the wound tract to be sure, but it looks like you've got another one on your hands."

Grissom sighed. "I'd love to stay, but I've got more evidence to process. Page me when you've got anything."

"Sure," the coroner said, getting a handsaw ready.

---

Sara was waiting for Grissom inside the layout room, with the photos of the crime scene she had managed to take spread out before her. She looked up as he returned from the morgue. "Robbins tell you anything?"

Grissom treaded carefully, fully aware of what had happened back then. "No exit wound, and nothing metallic in his chest. He thinks it's a meat bullet."

He had Sara's full attention, and not for an entirely good reason. "Meat bullet? Like the case out in the body farm two years ago?"

"Right."

"Oh."

Like Grissom, Sara could never forget that case. _When he said the lab needed me, I knew he was lying. Well, maybe not lying, just not telling the whole truth. It wasn't the lab that needed me; it was Grissom that needed me._

_How I wish I could just rewind the past two years. And I thought things were tough then. They were positively easy compared to things now._ Sara sighed. _Why is remembering the past always so painful? It's not supposed to be this way._

Grissom could see the sorrow in Sara's eyes. _Things have really gone downhill from then. We're both good at screwing up relationships, aren't we?_

His voice broke Sara out of her reverie. "O'Riley tells us the guard was out on roving patrol inside the campus. No signs of forced entry anywhere in the building. No one heard or saw anything suspicious either. So, our suspect enters the building, enters the storage room, and steals the venom in record time."

"Not too difficult. Universities don't have the best security systems in the world. How does the guard end up dead?"

Grissom shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe he was out on foot patrol, when he sees our suspect out and about. Our suspect kills him to avoid having any witnesses."

"But no one heard any gunshots. Someone should have heard something."

He put a hand under his chin, rubbing it in thought. "Maybe not. Meat bullets are hand loads. If he reduced the powder load in his rounds and used a silencer, no one would hear a thing."

"No drag marks in the grass, and the body was found next to a concrete path."

"One shoeprint in your photos, though."

"Yeah, but we weren't able to cast it. It's useless."

"Maybe not. Have the photo sent to Archie, have him work his usual miracles."

"Looks like Moriarty isn't so perfect at all."

---

Grissom was back in his office, dealing with yet another mountain of paperwork. Just as he moved a folder to the pile on his right, he heard knocks on his door. Sara had come back from the AV lab, and she had brought the report with her.

Handing over the folder, she said, "Archie recovered the shoeprint. Ran it through the database, and it's a size 11 hiking boot."

Grissom read over the file. "Available at dozens of stores in Nevada alone. Beautiful."

"Beyond the shoe size, we have nothing. Again."

Grissom scratched the side of his head in frustration. Sara was pacing around the office, trying to work the energy off.

Sara wondered if she should bring up the whole promotion issue again. It was the latest thing between them that had bothered her, and it was something they had yet to discuss properly.

_We really should talk about it without weaseling around each other. The problem then, of course, is that Grissom will retreat into that emotional fortress of his again just when I've succeeded in drawing him out just a little bit._

_It's been pleasant to be around him these past two days. No, not just pleasant. It felt nice. Very nice, in fact. I've missed it, much more than I've admitted to myself before._

_Why doesn't life have a rewind button? I'd certainly use it. A lot._

Sara saw that Grissom was also lost in thought. Looking into his eyes, she saw something she hadn't seen there before... sadness. They had lost some of the luster they once had.

It was a look, Sara knew, was mirrored in her own irises.

Out of nowhere, the insistent ringing of the fire alarm went off. Grissom instantly looked up; Sara turned around to face the door.

Sara was very tense. The last time the fire alarms inside the crime lab went off was when the lab blew up. She had managed to deal with that, but she still sometimes woke up in a cold sweat, the events of that day repeating itself in her mind.

It wasn't unique, however. It was just one of the many nightmares that conspired to deny her sleep.

People began filing out of the lab and the adjoining police station into the parking lot. Unlike the lab explosion when shock and fear had been the dominant emotions, today it was confusion. No one knew why the alarm had been activated.

Grissom was checking on the lab personnel when Brass called him over. The police detective was talking with Director Covallo. The administrator looked slightly shaken, Grissom noted.

Before Grissom reached the detective, however, the lab director went off in a separate direction. "What's going on? And what's wrong with Covallo?" asked Grissom, exasperated at the current state of affairs.

"Two questions, same answer. The director got a package with no return address; the sniffer got a whiff of explosives off of it. Bomb squad has been called and confirmed the package is a bomb; they just began defusing it."

"Any indications as to who sent it? Claims of responsibility?"

"No to both of those." Just then, the radio Brass had in his left hand went off. He spent a little under a minute talking to the person on the other end before turning back to Grissom.

"That was the bomb squad. They just defused the bomb. Guess what they found."

"I'm guessing it's not a box of chocolates, Jim."

"Afraid not. They found a postcard with a waterfall on it. Sound familiar?"

Grissom's gaze turned towards the parking lot. His eyes sought out his team, knowing the case had just taken a much more serious turn.

---

To be continued...


	4. Chapter 4

Here's the fourth chapter. Thanks to my beta readers Anne and Ash, they deserve as much credit as I do. Reviews and comments are always appreciated.

-----------------------------------

Across town, a man was watching the television in a dusty warehouse. He was very, very, disappointed.

_Last year, when they blew up their own lab the media was all over it. Now, I send a bomb and nary a word on the TV._

_At this point in San Francisco the media was all over my cases... well, perhaps it's just Dr. Grissom, Ms. Sidle, and their comrades are keeping quiet. Whatever the case, it's time to get some attention in the media._

_What do you find in Las Vegas? Casinos. What do you do with casinos?_

_You rob them._

He turned to the notebook computer beside him.

_Wonderful things, computers. Gives me access to all the information I need._

_Even the information I'm not supposed to have._

Within minutes, he was inside the network of a casino. The beginnings of a plan formed in his mind. _I'm so sorry, but be assured this is nothing personal. It's not like you'll miss the money. And I'm sure it's insured._

On the screen of the notebook was the biography of the casino's owner.

It belonged to none other than Sam Braun.

---

Greg was looking for Sara when he found her and Grissom inside the layout room, which was now crowded with dozens of evidence boxes. The pieces of the bomb sent to the director's office were on the table, being examined carefully by the two CSIs.

Sara looked up briefly at the sound of Greg's footsteps. "Hey, Greg," she said. "Results on my samples come in yet?"

"That's why I was looking for you," he answered. "None of your samples have any DNA that didn't belong to any of the victims. Sorry. Some of your other swabs are still pending, though."

"Not much of a surprise, this suspect is good." Grissom said. He was still hunched over the bomb, examining the whole device both with his flashlight and the ALS.

Greg walked over to look at the bomb himself. "So, this is what a bomb looks like..."

"Contrary to popular belief, bombs are not that difficult to make, Greg. Most of us probably have most of the tools needed in our own homes," Grissom said. Sara looked over to him and saw the look on his face. He was doing one of the things she knew he loved to do, but never got enough chances to do: teach.

Grissom went through the elements of bombs: the container, the propellant, and the detonator. The bomb sent to the Director was not terribly sophisticated: a pipe bomb filled with gunpowder, rigged to detonate when the box was opened.

When Grissom finished, he nudged Sara gently. She looked at him, and saw the message in his eyes: _Your turn._

Sara smiled secretly at Grissom and continued. "With pipe bombs, there are usually tool marks on the end caps used to seal it. See those?" Sara said, pointing to the end cap. "Most bombers get caught when we match their tools to the tool marks left."

"However, that doesn't apply to this case," Grissom dryly added.

"How come?" Greg asked.

Grissom held up a pair of vice grips. "He left his tools behind. We have perfect matches to a set of tools with no useful forensic evidence of them."

Catherine appeared at the door. "Oh, there you are," she said to Greg. "Got my results back yet?"

"Be patient, you were my next stop." He turned to Grissom and Sara. "Thanks for the lesson, guys," he said before joining Catherine and heading towards the DNA lab.

Sara moved her chair next to Grissom's until their bodies were almost touching. Her left arm occasionally brushed against his right. "So, what is our signature, Grissom?"

"I don't know. If there is a signature, it's the fact that this bomb is grossly ordinary. The detonator is the only thing relatively unusual."

Sara picked up one of the photos the bomb squad had taken of the bomb before it had been disassembled. "Look at this. For a bomb that was so well-crafted, how come the detonator wires were so obvious? The bomb squad had no trouble defusing it at all. Did our suspect get careless?"

There was a thoughtful look on Grissom's face. "No, that's not the case. All of his crimes so far have shown a great amount of planning and sophistication. He wouldn't get careless. It had to be intentional."

"Why?"

"You're the one who dealt with him before, Sara. You tell me," Grissom quipped.

"Okay, I was asking for that," she said with a smile. "We had the guy profiled more times than I could count. And guess what? No two shrinks ever came to the same conclusion. All we know that our guy is one disturbed person." Sara stifled a yawn as she finished.

"You okay?" Grissom asked.

"I'm fine, Grissom. Really. Let me just get some coffee-" She started to get up, but was stopped when Grissom put his hand on her left wrist.

"I'll get it. I could use some, anyway."

"Sugar, no cream."

"I know how you want it, Sara. I'll be back." As Grissom stood up, his hand wandered over Sara's back, staying momentarily at the small of her back before he turned and left to get coffee.

He didn't see the smile that lit up Sara's face. _I missed that. I really, really, missed that. Not just working with Grissom, but his touch. It sent shivers up my back, but in a good way. A very good way, in fact._

Grissom came back to the layout room, two mugs of coffee in hand. He set them both in front of their seats, but Sara paid him no heed. "Hey," he said as he sat down. "Your coffee. Sugar, no cream."

"Thanks," Sara said as she took a sip from the coffee.

"So, what were you thinking?"

"Excuse me?"

"You were lost in your thoughts when I came back."

"Oh." Sara blushed. "Nothing, just about how much this reminds me of my time back in San Francisco."

"You know, I noticed that you wrote about a third of the file, but you were only one of five CSIs assigned to the case."

If it was possible, Sara blushed even more. "Remember when I told you guys that we worked double and triple shifts?" Grissom nodded. "Actually, it was mostly me who pulled doubles and triples. I'm a creature of habit, I guess."

"Sara, I also noticed that the last case in California took place a few days after you arrived here in Las Vegas."

"Oh, that. Well, remember when you called me in four years ago, I told you I was on vacation?"

"Yeah, and?"

"Well, I worked something like... four days straight without going home. My supervisor noticed. He put me on two weeks paid leave. I was on day three of my leave when you called."

"Well, I'm glad you made it here," he said with a smile on his face.

"Thank you," Sara said, with a smile on hers as well. She turned away from his gaze before speaking again. "You know, we should consider ourselves lucky. The media hasn't gotten a hold of this yet. Back then, the media was all over it. I once caught a tabloid reporter at my doorstep, wouldn't leave even when I told him to."

"So what happened?"

"I brushed my jacket back to make sure he saw my holster. He got the point real quick after that."

"Creative."

Grissom glanced over to the wall, and saw that it had stopped several hours ago. _Probably a dead battery,_ Grissom thought. He brought his arm up so he could check his watch.

He realized what date it was. It was the exact one-year anniversary of the lab explosion.

"That's it, that what he wants, media attention..." Grissom said, surprising Sara.

"What?"

"Think about it. He sends a bomb to the Director of the Las Vegas Crime Lab – exactly one year after an explosion hit that same lab."

The realization hit Sara too. "Instant media exposure. But how come we haven't had to face any questions yet?

"We lucked out. Brass says the regular mailman called in sick, so they called in a substitute and he was late. Otherwise, it would have made the morning shows."

"It's going to leak out, Grissom. You know that. Someone's going to talk. There's going to be a feeding frenzy, and we'll be the shark bait."

Grissom nodded. "Maybe, but I can talk to the sheriff and keep the damage to a minimum. We can keep our Moriarty out of it, deny him the credit he wants so badly."

"That would work."

"Yes, but there's a catch. He's going to become even more frustrated and angry that we're ignoring him." He turned to face Sara. "He'll do something big soon – and all we can do is wait."

"That's it? Can't we do... something?"

"Remember what I told you back during the Strip Strangler case?"

Sara nodded. "Sometimes, the hardest thing to do is to do nothing."

"Exactly. With no evidence to speak of, there _is_ nothing we can do."

"So now what?"

"All we can do is eat and get some rest so we can be ready when he strikes again. You haven't eaten since last night, have you?"

"Have you?" Sara challenged Grissom.

"I asked first, Sara."

"Okay," she said with a smile. "No, I haven't eaten since shift began. Now, what about you?"

"Me neither. Can I offer you some lunch?"

Sara was surprised. _Did he say what I think he said?_

"As friends, of course," Grissom said, somewhat nervously.

Sara gave him a smile as bright as she had ever given him. "No problem." She paused briefly before continuing. "So, where do we go from here?"

---

The next day, a man in a cheap-looking suit walked into a bank. Introducing himself to one of the tellers as a representative of the Rampart, he asked to see the manager. The teller led the customer to the manager's office in the back of the bank.

"Good afternoon, I'm with the Rampart," the customer said as he handed over some documents authorizing him to withdraw three million dollars from an account the casino had with the bank. Of course, all the documents were fake, but no one in the bank knew that.

"Didn't someone from the Rampart already withdraw something like thirty mil yesterday?" the manager asked.

The man on the other side of the desk shrugged. "Busy night. I don't know why, not that it matters," he said.

"Fair enough. Got something to put the money in?"

"Sure, got a pair of suitcases, left them with the teller."

"That'll do. Give us a few."

With that, the manager left the man alone in the small office. Looking around, he couldn't help but be amused. _Who said the only way to rob a casino is to go inside one?_

After an hour, the manager came back with the black suitcases in hand. "Here you go, sir," he said.

"Thank you," the customer replied in turn. With that, he made his way back to a silver Lexus parked outside.

_A fool and his money are soon parted. And speak of the fool..._

He drove back to the warehouse and parked the car inside. Once the vehicle rolled to a halt, he got out and began removing the disguise and elevator shoes he had worn going to the bank. That done, he went back to his notebook computer.

Bringing up the notes he had scrupulously taken, he got the number he needed. He knew better than to use his voice in making the call; a voice synthesizer installed on the computer would serve in its stead.

Sam Braun was in his office at the Tangiers looking over the Las Vegas cityscape when his private line rang. He answered it.

"Hello, Mr. Braun. I have robbed you today and you don't even know it. I would advise you to check your bank account," the synthetic voice said, rolling off the details of the account from which the three million dollars had been taken from.

"Oh, and one more thing," it went on. "Call Dr. Grissom. Tell him that Moriarty sends him and Ms. Sidle my regards." The line went dead.

Sam Braun looked at the handset, not quite sure what to do next. It took more than a minute before he dialed a number he knew by heart, but one he didn't call as often as he would have wanted.

"Willows," the voice on the other end answered.

"Mugs? We need to talk."

---

To be continued...


	5. Chapter 5

Here's the fifth chapter. Thanks to my beta readers Anne and Ash, they deserve as much credit as I do. Reviews and comments are always appreciated.

-----------------------------------

Grissom and Sara were on the way to the bank after their interview with Sam Braun.

"Moriarty must have a death wish," Sara said. "I mean, Sam Braun is one of the most powerful men in Vegas. If Braun finds him before we do, he'll end up on one of Doc Robbins's tables."

"He's not looking at it the same way we are, Sara. For him, it establishes his notoriety. It takes serious guts to steal from Sam Braun. Once it gets out, it'll just make the story that more exciting to the media. 'Master Criminal Steals From Casino Magnate.' He's drooling over that headline," Grissom said.

Just then, his cell phone rang. Sara kept her eyes on the road as Grissom talked to whoever was on the other end. She noticed that he had a tone of deference to the other party; _it must be either Covallo or Sheriff Atwater_, she thought.

Grissom hung up as the Denali stopped at a traffic light. "That was the sheriff," he said. "Local TV stations all got calls tipping them off to Moriarty. This is officially a media case now."

Sara winced. A 'media case' was a case that played out in the media as much as it did inside the lab. "Reporters?"

"Sheriff is keeping them away from us for now. Besides, you know the drill."

"Yeah. We do not comment on on-going investigations."

"Exactly," Grissom said as their blue SUV arrived at the bank. Just behind them, two Denalis pulled up and the occupants – Nick, Catherine, and Warrick – all got out, field kits in hand. The five CSIs entered the bank, where they were welcomed by Brass.

"Just talked to the manager. He saw nothing suspicious about the transaction or the guy," he said.

"Does he have a description?" Grissom asked.

"Yeah." Brass read from his notes: "Plain tall white guy. The only thing the manager noticed was his cheap suit."

Grissom nodded. "Moriarty just made his first mistake. Half of the battle is finding out where to look for evidence; now we know where to look."

"Alright, what do we do?" Sara asked.

"We tear this place apart until we find every bit of evidence inside." Grissom turned to the other members of his team, handing them their assignments.

Nick and Warrick went into a back room to examine the video. Everyone else went into the manager's office. The CSIs went inside, while Brass and the manager continued to talk outside. It was a modest affair size-wise, but surprisingly comfortable. Dark curtains shielded the rooms from any prying eyes outside.

Catherine was the last one to enter the room, and as she did she tripped because of a small crack in the floor. She managed not to fall flat on the floor, though.

"You okay, Cath?" asked Sara.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, thanks."

Sara then realized something. _If Catherine tripped on the floor, then Moriarty might have done the same thing._

She left the room and joined Brass and the bank manager. "Excuse me, hi, I'm Sara Sidle, I'm from the crime lab," she said. "Did he trip as he entered your office?"

"That damned crack in the floor? Yeah, the guy tripped on it. Reached out for the curtains so he wouldn't fall in fact. I've been trying to have it fixed since forever, but no one's done anything."

"Thanks," Sara said to the manager. As she went back to the room, Grissom looked up at her. _What was that about, Sara?_

"Our suspect tripped when he entered the room," Sara said. "He reached over for the curtains to steady himself."

"Abrasion plus skin equals epithelials," said Catherine.

"Our suspect left us his DNA."

"Catherine, find Warrick. Have him help you take down these drapes and test them for epithelials," Grissom ordered.

Catherine nodded and left the room. Sara watched her leave the room, then turned toward Grissom. "What are you thinking?"

"What?"

"I said, what are you thinking?"

"He's giving up evidence too quickly," Grissom said while shaking his head. "It doesn't fit his previous behavior."

"You said it yourself, Grissom. He wants media attention and with this crime, he definitely has it."

"His ability to conceal his tracks suggests a knowledge of forensics beyond that of most suspects. Yet, he leaves us his prints, his DNA, and surveillance footage, all of which we could use to catch him. Why?"

"Calculated risk, maybe? AFIS and CODIS are only useful if he's already in the system."

"So if he's not in the system, all the evidence we've gathered will be -"

"Useless. Just like every other bit of evidence so far."

Grissom could only shake his head – both in admiration and frustration. "His mistake wasn't much of a mistake after all."

---

The entire team gathered in the break room to discuss their findings. Warrick led off.

"After helping Catherine with the drapes, I handed in the papers to QD. They're definitely fakes, paper doesn't match the originals the Rampart gave us. They are very good fakes, though. No way the manager could have known they were bad."

"So we can add forgery to his list of talents," Catherine said.

"Yep," Warrick replied.

"Inside job, perhaps? Suspect must have had access to the real stuff to gin up fakes this good," Nick said.

Grissom nodded. "Warrick, go back to the Rampart and see who has access to similar documents."

"What about fingerprints on the paper?" Sara asked.

"Plenty, but not in the database. We don't have the prints from bank employees, though," Warrick answered.

"Catherine, Brass said he'll continue the interviews this morning before the bank opens. Take Nick and print everyone who works there," Grissom said.

"Got it," the blonde said.

"Nick?"

"The video confirms the witness accounts. Guy seems quite confident of what he's doing, like he's done this a hundred times before."

"He may well have. Physical description?"

"Apparent height is six feet, five inches, using the counters for scale. Archie was able to zoom in on his shoes and measure the size. Confirms he wears size elevens," Nick said as he passed out photos to the rest of the group.

"Wait. I can't put my finger on it, but there's something not right about this pair," Catherine said.

"I was about to get to that. Those aren't ordinary loafers. They're elevator shoes. We've identified the specific type. PD is checking with local stores to get a list of buyers."

"Elevator shoes can raise a person's height by two to three inches," Grissom said. "Which means our suspect is only about... six-two? Six-three?"

"Well, I'm six-two, so that means the suspect is about my height," Warrick said.

"Helps limit our suspect list," said Grissom. "Catherine?"

"The curtains did test positive for epithelials. Greg says they're only from one donor, but I'm still waiting for a hit from the database."

"Alright. Sara?"

"We printed the manager's office. Plenty of prints, but most of them appear to belong to the manager. Couple of partials and unknowns, but our suspect's prints should be among those we collected. We'll need the employee's prints, though," she said, gesturing to Catherine.

At that moment, Greg came into the break room. "I rushed Catherine's DNA sample and the results are in. CODIS kicked out a result, but no details – says to contact the Boston crime lab for details."

"That's great, we finally have a good lead to follow," Sara said.

"No name, Greg?" asked Grissom.

"Nope. Just a number that means something to the Boston lab, I suppose."

"Alright. Warrick, Rampart. Nick, Catherine, PD. Sara and I will follow the Boston lead. We're done here."

With that, the other CSIs and Greg left the break room, leaving Grissom and Sara alone.

"DNA file, with no details? I've never heard of something like that, Grissom."

"I came across something similar a few months ago. Turned out it was a cold rape case in Los Angeles."

"I don't get it – if he has raped before, why would he take the chance of leaving some of his DNA behind?"

"The cold case back in Los Angeles was before crime labs started adding to the database regularly. It's only now that the crime labs in bigger cities have been able to put older cases into CODIS."

"I'm a CSI, and I didn't know that."

"It's not all that well-publicized. The guy who does it for us is on day shift. It could explain why our suspect was confident enough to leave behind his DNA in the bank."

"Because he thinks he's not in the system."

"But he is, and he just made another mistake."

The ringing of Grissom's phone interrupted their conversation. Sara noticed Grissom seemed annoyed when he saw who was calling, and it got worse when he actually took the call.

"What? I'm working a case here, but I guess you've forgotten what that means. Fine, I'll be there." Grissom almost spat out the last sentence.

Sara looked at him, puzzled. He answered the unspoken question. "That was Ecklie. Urgent meeting of supervisors." He let out a sigh of frustration. "I have to go. Can you follow up on the Boston lead for me?"

"Sure. I'll wait for you in your office, I suppose."

"Thanks."

---

Grissom walked back to his office quite pissed, but he always did after a meeting.

_Why in the world is it necessary to sit down and talk about administrative matters for two hours? I'm paid to solve crimes, not listen to some blowhard from Personnel blather about stress levels in the crime lab. Like they'd know something about that._

He opened the door, expecting to see Sara inside. However, she was nowhere to be found.

That surprised Grissom, but it grew when he noticed there was no note or anything else from her relaying her findings. He could tell that she had been inside: the papers on his desk looked disturbed, and a folder with the numbers of various crime labs was on top of it. Grissom normally kept it in one of the drawers.

He left his office, looking for Sara in the various labs. Grissom's last stop was the locker room, where he found her sitting in front of her locker. She was bent down, her head resting on her clasped hands.

The footsteps echoed in the room as Grissom stepped inside, taking a seat beside Sara. She heard him, but she didn't look up.

"Sara?" he said gently.

Her gaze went to his face slowly. She was too strong a woman to cry then and there in the lab, but Grissom could see she how she felt. Her brown eyes were full of pain and hurt, something he had never seen in the years he had known her.

Grissom didn't know what to do. He wanted to reach out to her and make the pain go away, but he knew he couldn't. _How can I make the pain go away if I don't know what's causing it?_

Sara broke the silence that had seemingly cast a spell over both of them. "Could we, uhm, take this somewhere more... private?"

"Yeah." Grissom slowly nodded.

Grissom led her back to his office, his hand occasionally wandering to the small of her back, as if to give her support. He closed the door behind him as she took one of the seats in his office.

Sara didn't know if she could, or should say anything. This had been a wound that she thought had healed, but Fate had chosen to tear away the scab and expose it to the elements once again.

She found the strength to tell her – and Melissa's – story. Grissom listened carefully, not quite sure what to make of what Sara was telling her now.

"It all began ten years ago..."

---

The cough drop rolled around Sara's tongue as she walked down the road.

It had been her roommate's idea. Melissa and Sara had met during their freshman year and despite being polar opposites, had hit it off well. They had become best friends and they still shared an apartment in Boston, one year after both had graduated. Sara had continued on to grad school, while Melissa was now working for a local book publisher.

Melissa had always been a party animal, and she even managed to drag Sara along every now and then. Last night had been one of those times; in the intervening dancing, flirting, and drinking, the two had somehow been separated. Sara had been ended up too drunk to really go home and ended up crashing for the night at the apartment of another friend who lived nearby.

_That figures, _Sara thought. _Remind me never to try to out drink Melissa ever. Again. She could drink an entire fraternity under the table._

As Sara came up to her apartment building, she was surprised to see the build manager and a police detective waiting at the entrance. She called out to the building manager. "Hey, Rob, what's going on?"

The manager and detective approached Sara. Rob, the manager, spoke first. "Sara, this is Detective O'Brien from the police."

"Wait, have I done something wrong, I mean, I paid those outstanding tickets last week," Sara said.

"No, no, it's not about you, Ms. Sidle," the officer said.

"Sar, it's, it's... something's happened to Melissa," Rob said.

"I don't get it. We were out partying last night, how could anything happen to her?"

"Were you together last night?" the detective asked.

"We were," Sara said. "I lost track of her, so I don't know where she is now." Sara was befuddled. "Could someone please tell me what this is all about? Is Melissa okay?"

"Ms. Sidle," O'Brien began, "your roommate was attacked and raped last night. She managed to make it here, where your manager called us in. She's in the hospital right now."

Shocked, Sara fell down onto a nearby couch. She was unable to comprehend just what was going on right now. Uncharacteristically, she cried, unaware of the voices around her.

---

Sara was fighting the tears that wanted to fall from her eyes as she looked up at Grissom. "They never caught who did it. Melissa was no good as a witness. They had... nothing to go on. It became just another unsolved rape case."

Grissom offered a box of tissues to Sara, who accepted. Wiping the corners of her eyes, she went on. "The only thing they recovered was the semen, but with no leads, it wasn't a priority. They just stored it, until they could find some reason to reopen the case."

"So he got away. Whoever he was, he was good. The police could do nothing," Sara said as she shook her head. "Melissa... she was never the same afterwards. A week after she was raped... she killed herself."

"I can still remember every detail like it was yesterday. I come home, and the apartment was quiet. Too quiet. I walk into her room and find her there, out on the bed, blood flowing from her wrists. I called 911, but... they were too late." A tear fell down her cheek.

Sara looked into Grissom's eyes. "She died in my arms, Grissom. Her last words were, 'I'm sorry. I didn't want things to end this way.'"

She took a breath in before continuing. "The Boston crime lab was recently able to add the DNA from the semen into their database. The sample Nick recovered from the bank was a perfect match to Melissa's rapist."

There was another pause. "You know what scares me, Grissom? It could have been me that night. I... I still don't know why I was spared and Melissa wasn't. Sometimes, I still wake up in the middle of my sleep, in a cold sweat, shouting out her name."

Grissom winced at the sight before him. He thought he knew Sara well, but he had absolutely no idea that something like that had happened to Sara.

_Or maybe not. You've always known how hard some cases hit Sara. You always thought it was just her being emotional. You thought that there was nothing more behind it. How wrong you were._

_How many times did you criticize her for being too emotional, for becoming attached to the victim? How could she not, when she herself was a victim?_

"Sara... I'm, I'm sorry," Grissom said.

"It's not your fault, Grissom. I... I didn't tell anyone about this. Ever. It just... hurt too much. I thought it could just go away." She shook her head. "Looks like it didn't, did it?"

He reached out for her hands. "We'll do everything we can to catch him, Sara. You know we will."

"I know, it's just that... when it matters to one of us, we can't always nail them." The ghosts of Eddie Willows were still fresh in Sara's mind.

"Let's go," Grissom gently.

"Where? Shouldn't we be working on the case?"

He shook his head. "We can't make the evidence go any faster. And you can't process if your mind isn't focused on the case. Sara, you can't ignore what happened and bury yourself in your work."

"What about you, Grissom? You bury yourself in the job all the time. You're the only one who has more vacation time left than me. What secrets lurk in your past?"

Grissom sighed quietly. Sara knew him all to well, it seemed. "Call it a case of do as I say, don't do as I do."

Sara smiled for the first time since her confession, as it was, had began. "Okay."

"Shall we?" Grissom motioned towards the door.

"Where are we going?"

"Anywhere you're comfortable, Sara. We'll deal with this. Together."

"Okay." Sara walked towards the door that led out of the office. Behind her, Grissom picked up his briefcase and prepared to close down his office for the day.

As he came up behind her, Sara looked towards Grissom. "Let's," she said.

The sound of the door closing echoed in the empty room.

---

To be continued...


	6. Chapter 6

Real life sucks.... I'm sorry that the update took so long. In any case, here is the sixth chapter. Thanks to my beta readers Anne and Ash; without them this story would not be possible. Thanks also for just reading this; reviews and comments are always appreciated.

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The white Lexus sat in the street, lost among the other luxury vehicles in this high-end neighborhood. The only difference was this Lexus didn't belong to anyone who lived there.

Inside, Moriarty munched on a granola bar as he browsed the internal CSI network. It was where he had gotten the idea for using the meat bullet, and he was again turning to it for criminal inspiration.

_A pity they use a different system for their current investigations. I haven't been able to break the encryption and security for that. Yet._

_It's interesting to see their previous record. Las Vegas isn't the top crime lab west of the Rockies for nothing. They are a worthy opponent._

In the background, the small portable TV on the dash droned on.

"Las Vegas police today refused any comment on whether the investigation into the so-called Moriarty cases had made any progress. The anonymous criminal is believed responsible for the theft two days ago of several million dollars from an account of the Rampart casino, owned by Las Vegas legend Sam Braun. Police have also indicated they believe he is responsible both for one murder and a robbery at UNLV earlier this week. Sheriff Rory Atwater expressed confidence that, quote, 'this vicious criminal will be brought to justice in the soonest possible time,' unquote."

The same broadcast was in a small room at the Las Vegas Crime Lab. The ill-lit room, with no windows and only one door, was dominated by several PCs and shelves full of assorted computer parts. All three people were huddled around one of the computers.

They belonged to the IT Unit of the Las Vegas Crime Lab, and their primary task was to maintain and secure the extensive network of computers that the crime lab used in its day-to-day work.

The self-proclaimed geeks were installing a new security system on the network. The software package was said to be the most powerful security system available commercially. While powerful, it was far from user-friendly. The IT guys had spent the last four hours trying to get it to work, and their hard labor had just been rewarded. The new system was now installed and seemed to be working well.

They celebrated their achievements over the only food and drinks at hand: energy drinks and granola bars. As the boss finished his first bottle, he noticed that the monitor was blinking, and there was a faint beeping in the air.

All three noticed that and approached the computer. They soon knew what it meant: somebody had hacked into the crime lab's network, and was freely accessing one of their databases.

A few clicks and keystrokes revealed which database was being accessed. It contained the information from inactive investigations, dating back several years. Whoever was inside, they noted, was taking his sweet time going over the files.

"Damn, Eric, how the world could we have missed this before?" the boss said.

"Dunno, Chief, but if he bypassed all the lockouts, passwords, and firewalls we put in place, then he is damn good," Eric replied.

The other system administrator, Robert, went to another computer off to the side. "Let me check how the hell he got in the network," he said.

For several minutes, nothing could be heard except for the whir of computers and the furious pounding of keyboards. Robert finally yelled, "I got it!"

Their boss went over to Robert. "What d'ya got?"

"He got in through our web server. Once he compromised that system, he put in a back door so he could enter whenever he wanted."

"Chief, I've gone over the access logs," Eric said. "He's been doing this for at least a few weeks, from the looks of it."

Everyone was soon standing around Eric. "What's he been checking out?" the Chief asked.

"First it was just procedure manuals, administrative stuff, all ordinary stuff. About two weeks, though, he started going over the old cases."

"Not the new ones?" Robert said.

"No, we use a different security system for that. Whoever this guy is, he is very good."

"Yeah, well, good or not, he's giving us a major-league headache. Cut him off, now. I'll go talk with the grown-ups now."

"Sure thing, Chief."

The boss turned towards the door. He had dealt with tough bosses before, especially in his previous employment with the Navy. Still, nothing would probably compare to the wrath of angry CSIs discovering that what they thought stayed inside the lab... didn't.

Meanwhile, a flood of dialog boxes came up on Moriarty's laptop. They all said more or less the same thing: access denied.

_Ah, so they've finally wised up... I was wondering what was taking them so long. Time to send an e-mail, then._

_There's the name I want. Grissom, Gilbert. Age, address, there, e-mail._

After he had sent his e-mail, Moriarty shut the lid of his notebook and placed it on the seat beside him. He drove away, annoyed at this turn of events. _I was hoping to use their inside information for my next crime. Oh well, there are ways around that._

_Still, it will take more time than I thought. Perhaps I should arrange for a surprise for CSI..._

---

The news about the virtual break-in had spread quickly through the crime lab, both officially and unofficially. Grissom had spent the better part of an hour explaining the situation to everyone.

As a result, he already felt tired. _This is going to be a long shift. It's barely begun and I already need a cup of coffee._ With a sigh, he entered his office where Sara was waiting for him.

"You ready to start? It could take us a while to write this report," Sara said.

"Yeah, just give me a moment," Grissom said. He went behind his desk and popped open his notebook computer, which automatically checked his e-mail as it turned itself on.

While waiting, Grissom and Sara chatted. Sara thought to herself, _this is the most comfortable I've ever felt around him. And to think, several weeks ago we were barely talking._

Sara was as hopeful as she had ever been with Grissom. Still, the events of the past four years had put in place a nugget of doubt that wouldn't go away easily. _We're close and comfortable NOW. The question is whether he'll still feel the same way later on. It's that same old game, he gets close, he pushes me away, he gets close... _

_I'll be damned if I do anything to make him go behind his emotional walls again. I'm going to make sure he can't push me away this time, no matter how hard he tries._

Sara didn't know that far from pushing her away, Grissom was thinking about how to draw her closer._ I've nearly lost her before... it seems like you have another chance with her, one I'm not sure I really deserve._

Turning his attention back to his computer, Grissom saw that he had only a few new e-mails. Going through them, he saw they were all entirely routine except for the last one. Grissom became a bit confused, something Sara noticed.

"Hey, what's wrong?" she asked.

"Take a look at this," he replied.

Sara went over to Grissom's side of the table; she was leaning over so closely her chest was leaning on Grissom's arm and shoulder. She saw what had confused Grissom: the last unopened e-mail was from an address that neither one recognized, and all it said was, "Call IT." Some sort of picture was attached, but Grissom hadn't opened it.

"You're the one who's good with these things, Sara. You know what this is?"

"Well, it could be a virus, but all our e-mail gets scanned, so that's not it... I don't know."

"Should we open it?" Grissom said, quite curious as to what the mystery attachment was.

"It should be safe, but... you never know."

"No such thing as totally safe, Sara," Grissom said, smiling as he did so.

Their mouths both opened wide when they saw what the attachment was. It was a picture that was identical to the postcards left at the earlier crime scenes. Both knew what that meant.

It had not been just some random hacker who had broken into their computer systems just for the heck of it. It had been Moriarty, and whatever he was up to, it was no good.

---

Grissom and Sara sat in the A/V lab, with Archie beside them. While angry that the crime lab's security had been violated so blatantly, both CSIs recognized that it gave them one very good lead.

The IT department had been able to find out the IP addresses from which the internal network had been compromised. The IP address was rather like an address for the Internet; by itself it had no direct connection with the real world.

With help from service providers, though, IP addresses could be traced to physical addresses. It had taken a fair amount of arm-twisting, but they would soon know from where Moriarty had accessed their network.

"Alright, the look-up is done," Archie said. "Here's a map of Vegas, and here's where he accessed the network from." The tech pressed a key, and instantly dots appeared all over the map up on the large screen before them.

Grissom and Sara were both unpleasantly surprised. They had expected that there would be some pattern, but that was not the case. Instead, the dots were spread all over the map, without no apparent rhyme or reason.

"How did this happen? He couldn't have been in all of those places, right?" Sara asked.

"Archie, group them by date and display them one day at a time," Grissom said.

He did so, and they could soon see a pattern of sorts. For every day, there were still many dots on the screen. However, they tended to be in one part of Las Vegas.

"I still don't get it. How could he have accessed our network from all these places every day?" Sara said.

"This isn't something I know very well," Grissom admitted. "We may need to call in an outside expert. Archie, can you tell us anything about those places?"

"Sure. Most of them appear to be homes, with a smattering of coffee shops. Almost no large offices, and the businesses are almost all small mom-and-pop ones except for the cafes."

"Time of day?" Sara asked.

"Mostly mid-morning or the afternoon. Almost none from the evening, though."

"So that rules out Moriarty breaking into homes. Doesn't seem like his style, anyway," Grissom said.

"Wait a minute, I think I know what this is," Archie said, receiving two stares from Grissom and Sara in reply.

"The cafes are the tip off," the tech continued. "Most of them now allow you to browse the Internet – they provide the connection and you connect to them wirelessly."

"WiFi," Sara said. "There's a cafe near my place which does it free, I spend a lot of time there."

"Alright," Grissom said with a nod. "What does this have to do with our case?"

"Well, lots of homes with broadband connections use the same stuff. You can buy the base station for around a hundred bucks," Archie went on. "Unfortunately, wireless is, by nature, less secure, and you have to work at it to make it secure."

"Let me guess. Most people don't?" Grissom said.

"Yeah. Some PC guys actually drive around, looking for vulnerable wireless networks. It's called wardriving."

"Wait a minute," Sara said. "So there are guys who drive around looking for people with security holes, and break into other people's networks? Is this legal?"

"Most of them don't break into the network, Sara. They just look for them, but they don't enter," Archie said.

"Alright. So our guy drives around Las Vegas neighborhoods, looking for homes with vulnerable wireless connections. How far do you have to be from the base station to do this, wardriving?" Grissom asked.

"WiFi's pretty short-range," Archie replied. "A few blocks, maximum, with a standard notebook. You could build or buy better antennas, but they're pretty big. People would notice you holding them."

"Alright. Archie, go back to the last break-ins and zoom-in," Grissom ordered.

The tech complied, and the map zoomed in on a fairly well-off suburb. "So, we know our suspect was somewhere in this neighborhood, accessing other people's wireless networks, most likely from a vehicle," Grissom said.

"Didn't Brass get a description of the vehicle the guy was driving from the bank guards?" Sara said.

"White Lexus. No license plate on it, and none have been recovered since the bank job."

"It's a start. White Lexus with a lone occupant that doesn't belong in the area."

Grissom appeared thoughtful for a while, and then nodded. "You're right. Archie, good work. Sara, we need to call Brass."

---

The gray armored van pulled out of the Bellagio and onto the Strip. As it did, a white car followed right behind it as headed for McCarron International Airport.

_It's like clockwork. Every Tuesday and Friday, at four PM, the armored van leaves the casino and heads for the airport. Within an hour, it arrives at the airport, where the cargo is transferred to a warehouse, awaiting air transport._

_Oh, and what is the cargo? Nothing more than sacks and sacks of cash. Soiled money, supposedly, money that the feds have decided to pull out of circulation. Be that as it may, it's still legal tender._

_Security? You'd think there would be more, but no. Three guards – one in the front, driving, and two in the back. _

_Yes, this is possible... but it requires more planning and time than I expected. Oh well, plans are always too optimistic._

_What about CSI? I certainly don't want them twiddling their thumbs, going about rather pedestrian crimes. No, I want to give them something to do._

_Maybe I will. Maybe I will..._ his mind went back to several addresses and phone numbers pilfered from the police's database.

---

Sara was walking down the corridor when Grissom came up to her. "IT tell you anything?" he asked.

"They checked out all the files and the access logs, and they're sure nothing was modified. He just looked, he didn't touch."

"Good. Brass has some leads for us, a white Lexus was spotted in the neighborhood from where our network was last accessed. You coming?"

With that, Grissom and Sara headed for the PD, to join Brass in following up on their leads.

As they were leaving the lab, they ran into Nick. "Hey, were are you guys going?" he asked.

"PD. Brass has some leads for us to follow up on."

"Okay, see you around."

Nick had barely begun going over the messages left for him at the receptionist when he heard an entirely unexpected sound.

From down the corridor, towards the administrative offices and the PD, gunshots and shouting. Nick turned towards the sound and realized who had last been down that way.

Grissom and Sara.

Startling the receptionist, Nick wrenched the pistol from his hip, moving slowly towards the exit.

---

To be continued...


	7. Chapter 7

Alright, here's the seventh chapter for your enjoyment. Thanks always go to my betas Anne and Ash; feedback is always welcome. Thanks also to everyone who has taken the time out to write a review.

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The entrance to the building looked like a T from up above. From the door, you could go right towards the police or left towards the crime lab.

It was down this corridor that Nick was moving, his gun at the ready.

He was not prepared for what he saw just before the junction. Grissom was down on the floor, and he appeared to be bleeding from some head wounds. Sara was crunched down beside him, half trying to tend to his wounds and half trying to defend herself from the gunfire that still echoed in the lobby.

"What the hell is going on here, Sar?" Nick asked.

Sara pulled out her handkerchief and put it on Grissom's forehead, applying pressure in an attempt to stop the bleeding. "We were on the way to join Brass when these two guys come out from the entrance. All of a sudden they pull out guns, and all hell broke loose." More buckshot hit one of the walls, showering the three with concrete dust.

Wordlessly, Nick moved over to the corner to try and deal with whoever was wrecking havoc.

Two guys – Nick thought they looked like they belonged to a gang – were in the middle of the lobby. They were both firing at anyone in sight, and he had to duck as a blast was fired in his direction.

Several police officers were in the opposite corridor, and they were not having any better luck. One of their own lay messily dead in the middle, hit during the first moments when the attackers had the benefit of surprise. Gunfire – both pistol fire from the cops and shotgun blasts from the thugs – sounded repeatedly, the noise seemingly louder in the relatively confined space.

The two thugs turned their attention to the uniformed cops, unloading shot after shot in their direction, sending dust into the air, blocking everyone's line of sight.

Except for Nick's. He peeked out from the corner, leveled his pistol, and fired two straight shots – known as a double-tap – at the nearest attacker.

What he could not have known was that his targets had been wearing body armor. It wasn't the thickest or most effective armor available, but it was enough to defeat the 9mm rounds that most police units used.

Luck, however, was on Nick's side. While one of the bullets hit the vest, the other round hit one spot the vest didn't cover – the armpit. The bullet went in squarely, entered the chest, and fatally injured the felon. With a shout, he went down, his finger pressing down on the trigger of his weapon, sending buckshot in all directions.

Nick ducked behind the wall again. An officer yelled in pain as pellets hit his leg, while his comrades pulled him to safety. A shard of concrete flying from the walls gashed Sara in the arm, causing her to curse out loud, catching Nick's attention.

"Sar, you all right?"

"I'm fine, just a scratch, but Grissom's not doing so well. Bleeding isn't stopping."

"Dammit," Nick swore. He slid out the empty magazine from his gun, and slapped in another one he took from his belt.

"Here," Sara said, tossing Nick a magazine from her belt. He slipped it into the space where his spare previously had been.

The gunfire seemed to cease for a moment, and Nick took a look around the corner again. He saw that the felon was trying to reload his weapon with one hand while firing at the cops with the other. He was so distracted he didn't even know Nick was there.

He soon found out – the hard way. Nick had moved from his covering place, took aim, and fired another double-tap. He had barely begun turning towards Nick when the two rounds hit him squarely in the face. As he fell backwards, more bullets from the officers' guns completed the job. He crashed through the glass panels and fell onto the hard pavement outside.

As Nick and several officers approached the bodies, Brass came running up from the police station with more cops behind him. The footsteps echoed in the corridors, and Sara turned at the sound.

Brass began surveying the disaster area that was the lobby. One dead cop, two dead assailants. One officer was wounded, but it looked to be a minor flesh wound. It was painful, but not life threatening.

It took him a moment to see Sara in the corridor leading to the crime lab. She was still tending to Grissom, one hand holding his while the other held the bloodied handkerchief on his forehead.

The look in Sara's eyes was one Brass thought he would never see. It was a look of worry and... fear. He had known her for four years and never thought she could be afraid of anything.

When he saw who she was tending to, he instantly understood why she felt that way. Years of police training kicked in; there would be time for emotions later. He grabbed a radio from a nearby officer, and spoke into it. "Dispatch, this is Captain James Brass. We have a shooting at the eastern entrance. Multiple officers down, repeat, multiple officers down. Send rescue ASAP."

---

Catherine and Warrick had been out working a double when the shooting taken place, but they had heard it over the radio. They had turned around and gotten back to the lab in record time, but when they arrived they saw Sara climbing into an ambulance, with the EMTs helping her up. The door slammed shut and the ambulance ran off, sirens blaring.

"Man, this is not good," Warrick said as they looked at the gaggle of patrol cars and other emergency vehicles that crowded the area. It felt ridiculous, almost surreal, that a building housing law enforcement could become a crime scene.

The two entered the ruined lobby, where they saw Nick, David, and Brass. Brass and David were kneeling over the body of the dead officer.

"Hey, you OK, man?" Warrick asked Nick.

"Yeah, I think. I'm fine, so's Sara. I dunno about Grissom, though," Nick said.

"Wait, wait. No one said anything about Grissom. Where is he? What happened here?" Catherine said, clearly alarmed and agitated.

Brass rose and faced the two. "Grissom and Sara were heading for the PD when two guys came into the lobby and pulled out shotguns. Grissom got hit in the head and an officer was killed with the first shots. Nick and other officers managed to kill them before they got any further into the building."

"Where's Grissom? And Sara? What's their condition?" Catherine asked.

"Grissom is on his way to Desert Palm, condition is serious but not life-threatening. Sara is fine except for a superficial gash on her shoulder," Brass answered, as he saw Sheriff Atwater heading their way. "Excuse me, the sheriff's here," he said as he left to speak to their boss.

When they were alone, it was finally Catherine who first spoke. "I don't like the sound of this at all. And that's even without considering that it's Grissom and Sara who got hurt this time. We're just damn lucky that one – or both – of them isn't dead."

"Could have been any one of us, Cath," Warrick said. "Don't kick yourself too badly, it's not your fault."

"Yeah, but, it's Grissom, man," Nick said. "Let's face it, we all owe him, one way or another, for where we are right now. We wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him."

"I know, Nick, I know," Warrick said. "It's just seems like it couldn't happen here. In the field, sure, but that's why we all carry. But right in the lab?" He shook his head.

"Anything can happen to anyone, Warrick," Catherine said. "Even Grissom."

"Hey guys?" David said. He had moved over to one of the dead suspects, and was pointing to a tattoo on his arm. "Anyone recognize this?"

Warrick looked at the tattoo closely. "Oh yeah, I know this one," he said. "Coyotes. Relatively small gang, but violent as hell. They're gonna be famous now, going after cops in their own house," he added.

"Not if we have anything to say about it," Brass said. He had rejoined them after talking with the sheriff. "Cops don't like cop killers. Coyotes are going to be out of business soon."

"Sheriff tell you anything important, Jim?" Catherine asked.

"Yeah. Your serial criminal, the one Grissom's after – he called it in to the TV stations, like he did the Rampart job. To prove he's talking the real deal, he gave the weapons used and the gang that carried out the hit – minutes after the shooting stops, and before anyone could have known."

The three looked at Brass, all aghast at the newest bit of information. "Dammit," Catherine said, saying what everyone present was thinking.

_He is one sick bastard, going after us, _Catherine thought. _Gil, I've known him for as long as I've been a CSI and he taught me every trick in the book. Sara, well, we've had our differences, but she's still family, of sorts anyways. And she's still a damn good CSI. Maybe even better than me._

"So, now what?" Nick asked. "We've got to do something. We can't just sit here and do nothing."

"Yeah," Catherine said. "I'll head off to Desert Palm and check in on them. Find Greg and process this whole scene. Find out what in the world exactly happened here."

Both men nodded and began working the scene. Catherine got into her SUV and drove off for Desert Palm, trying to get there as fast as she could to check up on the status of her friends and colleagues.

---

Sara was sitting in the waiting room holding a paper bag. Inside was all of Grissom's clothes and other personal effects; the doctors had removed it all before bringing him in for surgery.

A part of her still wasn't sure what had happened back in the lab. _You think you'd be a good witness, but no. Humans are fallible creatures, and just because you're a CSI doesn't mean you're going to remember things under extreme stress better than anyone else._

Her gaze moved to the door the doctors would come from. _They say the injuries aren't life-threatening, but... I don't know. I was... scared, to be honest. And not just for myself. I was afraid I'd lose him, too._

_His hand was in mine for the entire ride. I couldn't understand what he was saying through the oxygen mask, but I could swear his hand was squeezing mine, as if he was holding on._

_Holding on. That's what I've been doing for as long as I can remember. Holding on to the hope that there was something for me here in Las Vegas. Holding on to the hope that something could happen between you and Grissom._

_I've wanted to give up before, but not now. Not when things seem to be getting better. Not when it seems my hope hasn't all been for naught. Not when he needs me._

Catherine entered the waiting room just then. While they weren't exactly the best of friends, the blonde could see the emotional turmoil Sara was going through.

_That was close. Too damn close. When was the last time we had a CSI injured? One or two years ago... when I was attacked at a crime scene. When was the last time someone was shot? Holly Gribbs, more than four years ago. I don't know if Brass and Grissom have ever forgiven themselves for that._

_We simply lucked out this time. If there's one thing you learn in Vegas, it's you can't count on luck._

She took a seat beside the brunette, who turned and acknowledged her presence with a nod and an upward twitch of her lips that was the closest thing to a smile Sara could put together at the moment. The two waited for the doctor to come out and bring them news.

It seemed like an eternity, but finally the door leading to the operating room opened and the doctor walked out, still wearing surgical greens.

The two women stood up quickly. "I suppose you're both here about Mr. Grissom," the surgeon said. "Are you family or friends, or...?"

"Catherine Willows and Sara Sidle, Las Vegas Crime Lab. We both work with him."

"Ah, yes. You'll both be pleased to know that he's fine. We fixed the damage the buckshot caused-"

"Wait a minute. We were never told what the extent of his injuries were. _What_ damage?" Sara asked, a tinge of anger in her voice.

"Mr. Grissom was hit with several shotgun pellets. Some passed through his forehead, one grazed his nose, and two more his chin. In any case, none of them were life-threatening, although the forehead wounds did cause a fair amount of bleeding," the doctor said. "Head wounds that aren't deadly tend to be bleeders. He's now out of surgery and recuperating."

"Can we see him?" Catherine asked.

"Just one problem. He is extremely sensitive to anesthesia – he'll be out of it for a few hours, I'm afraid. Aside from that, you can see him now. We'll be moving him to a private room soon, however, so I would suggest you wait until then."

"I won't," Sara announced firmly. "Where is he?"

The doctor gave in and told Sara where Grissom could be found. Armed with that information, Sara stormed off.

"Did you remove any pellets from him?" Catherine asked.

The doctor shook his head. "No. None of the pellets remained in his body."

"Alright. Here's my calling card, keep me informed of any developments."

"Will do. Excuse me, I have to go back inside." With that, the doctor made his way to the operating room.

Catherine got her cell phone from her purse and flipped it open. She had many phone calls to make.

---

Warrick hung up the phone in the A/V lab. "That was Catherine," he said to Archie. "Grissom's out of surgery and they're moving him into a private room now."

"What about Sara? Isn't she at Desert Palm too?"

"Yeah. She's okay, she's probably staying with Grissom until this whole thing gets fixed," Warrick said. "Back to the video. How many cameras do we have?"

"Four. The entire system is digital, so I don't have to deal with tapes. Two in the lobby and one looking down each corridor. I've synchronized them all and set them to just before the shooting."

"Alright, let's see it."

For several minutes the only sound in the room was the light whirring of fans as the entire series of events played out on the screen. Archie stopped the tape at the moment that Brass had called for help.

Warrick shook this head before speaking. "Back it up to just before the shooting begins. Slow-motion, Archie."

The tech complied. "Stop," Warrick said, just as Grissom, Sara, and one of the officers were all lying on the floor. "Did you see that?"

"I think I did," Archie said. He replayed the video in slow motion again. "There's our bad guys coming into the lobby. Grissom and Sara enter the lobby on the way to the PD. Now, they pull out shotguns and Grissom... freezes?"

"Just because he's our boss doesn't make him any less human," Warrick said, "even if it sometimes doesn't seem that way. Natural reaction."

Archie nodded. "Sara spots the two gangbangers. She turns, and..." The tech's voice faded as both he and Warrick silently watched the video.

On the screen before them, in slow motion, Sara turned as she saw the two attackers in the lobby – with their guns up and pointed at the people in the room. She also saw that Grissom wasn't moving, seemingly transfixed at the sight before him but unable to take action.

It was Sara who took action. She spun around and used every muscle in her body to throw Grissom and herself down to the floor. She did so in time – as Grissom's body began to fall down towards the floor, the shotgun blast that had been aimed squarely at his head missed him, but only just. As it was, some pellets had still hit his face.

He had fared much better than the officer who was out in the lobby at the same time. He had seen the attackers at the same time Sara had, but his first instinct had been to reach for his gun. The officer paid for it with his life; the full force of the shotgun blast killed him on the spot.

Archie stopped the tape soon after. They didn't need to see any more. The tech turned to Warrick, who had an even more thoughtful look on him than usual.

"If Sara hadn't reacted the way she did – or if she had been just one moment too late – Grissom would have suffered the same fate of that officer who died. She literally saved Grissom's life."

---

To be continued...


	8. Chapter 8

Real life still sucks, which is why this chapter took so long. Heartfelt thanks go out to my betas Anne and Ash. Feedback and reviews are always welcome.

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Catherine, Nick and Warrick were all standing at the nurse's station, waiting to get Grissom's room number. While there, they watched the small TV hanging on the wall. No one was really surprised that the shooting at the crime lab was the top story for the late night news updates.

"Las Vegas law enforcement officials refused to give out any details about the shooting at the crime laboratory last night. Senior police officials who requested anonymity did confirm that the same individual wanted in the Moriarty cases is believed to be responsible for the shooting. They added that one officer died, while another officer and CSI supervisor Gil Grissom were wounded."

After a few minutes, a nurse gave Catherine the info they wanted, and the trio made their way down the corridors. They came upon Grissom sitting up on his bed, talking to the same doctor who had operated on him several hours earlier. Sara was on a chair beside the bed, talking to the surgeon as well.

"Hey," Catherine said to the doctor. She made the needed introductions, as he had not met Nick or Warrick yet. "So, you told me that you can release Grissom later today?"

"Yes," the doctor said. "His injuries were pretty minor, and we just kept him in here just as a precaution. We can let him go in a few hours. If he wants to go ride the Big Shot on the Stratosphere after that, he's in perfect health to do so." Turning to Catherine, the doctor went on. "Ride fan myself, though I think the Big Shot's over-rated. If you'll excuse me, I have other patients to see." The doctor left the room, humming some tune no one understood.

"Well, we're all glad to see you're okay," Catherine said.

"Thanks. Did Greg-"

"Yeah, Greggo fed all those bugs you keep, Griss," Nick said. It was an initiation of sorts for the lab tech turned CSI trainee.

"Good. I don't want to find a room full of dead bugs when I come back."

"Speaking of that," Catherine said, "you do know about the new department rules right?"

"Which ones?" Grissom replied.

"The ones which say you take tomorrow off. I know, there's a case to solve – but it's not like you can work it either. Take the time off, will you, Gil?"

Grissom just shrugged his surrender. It wasn't like he had much of a choice. "And Sara – tomorrow's your day off. For once, will you please treat it as one?" Catherine said to the brunette.

"Fine. I suppose I could use a break, anyway."

Nick turned to Warrick. "Mark this day down, Warrick. The day Sara Sidle said she could use a break."

Sara pursed her lips, both amused and annoyed at Nick's jab. "You are soooo dead, Nick Stokes."

With that, everyone started idly chatting away, much like anyone did when they visited a friend who was about to go home from a hospital stay. Everyone soon filtered off, except for Sara.

"Hey," Grissom said, catching Sara's attention. She had been watching Catherine leave.

"Yeah?" Sara asked.

"I... never got the chance to thank you properly."

"For what, Grissom?"

"You know what I'm talking about, Sara," he said matter-of-factly.

Sara let out the breath she didn't even know she had been holding. "I... didn't know, I wasn't sure if you'd remember."

"Just about the only thing I remember from it. I see someone in the lobby, I see they're armed, next thing I know you're pushing me down to the floor."

"After that, do you remember anything?"

He shook his head. "Not much, it's all a blur. All I can clearly remember is that somehow, I knew you were there."

"Thanks," Sara said with something that resembled her megawatt smile.

"I'm not sure if I could ever thank you enough. Sara, I... have a confession of sorts to make, I guess," Grissom said. Sara could tell he was a bit nervous.

_No, not just a bit. I have never seen him this nervous. What sort of confession could make Grissom nervous?_

"Okay," Sara said as she let out a breath.. "Go on."

"Remember a few weeks ago, I told you that the reason I recommended Nick for Lead CSI was because he didn't care whether he got the job or not? I lied, that wasn't the real reason I gave it to him."

Sara sighed. _Of course he lied. You knew his reason was stupid, and you called him on it. Grissom wouldn't be the kind to use such a ridiculous excuse, would he?_

"The real reason," he went on, "is that..." Grissom paused as he looked straight into Sara's eyes. "The real reason is I wanted to protect you."

Sara rose from her chair, confused as his words hit her. "Protect me? Grissom, I don't get how you would protect me by denying me a valuable promotion that we both know I deserved."

"Alright, I'll explain," he said. "Why did you want the promotion?"

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me right. Why did you want the promotion?"

"Because I wanted to advance my career. I wanted to prove that I am as good a CSI as anyone else out there." Sara shook her head. "I don't get where this line of questioning is going."

"Lead CSI was never about who had the better solve rate, or who could solve cases more quickly, or anything related to the scientific side of the job. It was about one thing, and one thing only: who wants to become a Supervisor someday."

Sara sat down as Grissom continued. "Sara, how often do I manage to get out in the field, compared to you?"

She shrugged. "Not nearly as often. Only Greg spends less time in the field than you do, and that's only because he still has responsibilities back in the lab."

"Exactly. That's because more often than not I'm stuck at the lab, either doing paperwork or in a meeting. The only thing Lead CSI would lead to was just that - paperwork. When Mobley came up with the position a few years ago, the idea was to provide management training to those who would eventually become part of management."

"Sara, you're too good for that. You're too good to be stuck behind a desk, doing paperwork, meeting with bureaucratic types who have no idea what it's like to process a scene, or attend an autopsy, or to question a suspect."

"People like to say that I made the Las Vegas Crime Lab into the number two lab in the country. I didn't. It was some of the best CSIs around – like you, Nick, Warrick, and Catherine – who did. I'm honored to have some of the best CSIs in the country in my shift. You're all going places soon enough. Catherine's going to become a Supervisor sooner rather than later. Nick and Warrick's going the same way farther down the road."

"But you're different, Sara. You're even better. I saw it in your eyes the moment you walked into my seminar. You're intelligent, passionate, and work as hard as anyone else. In every forensic field, there are around a dozen people who are at the top of their game in that field. Forensic entomology, I'm one of them. You've got everything needed to be one. I didn't want to stick you behind a desk, stuck doing paperwork, like... me."

Sara had been looking at Grissom intently the whole time, trying not only to listen to what he was saying but also trying to listen to what the rest of his body was saying.

_There is something behind those eyes. Hurt, pain, trauma, I don't know. _

"There's something else, isn't it, Grissom? It's not just the promotion, is it?" Sara asked.

He shook his head. "No. Sara, when I look at you, I worry for you. If you wanted to, you could become of the best CSIs in the country. What I'm afraid of is what you may have to give up to get that."

"I don't know where, and I don't know when, but sometime in the past I gave up my personal life for this job. Catherine called me on it several years ago. The thing is, she was right. But it was the way things had been for me, and I had accepted that was the way they would be."

"It wasn't just your intelligence I saw when you into my seminar. I saw someone who clearly enjoyed life. You had a smile that could light up an entire room. Sara, even with everything you've been through these past four years, I still see every now and then that same thing I saw then."

"Sara, I don't want you to make the same mistakes I did. You deserve more than coming home to an empty townhouse, with no one to welcome you back home. You deserve more than having only Bach and bugs to console you when the nightmares come every time you go to bed. I admit it, I... don't have a life. That's not you, Sara. You deserve to have a life, with someone who can give you the love and comfort you deserve." Grissom's lowered his voice until it almost became a whisper. "Even if it isn't me."

Sara moved her chair closer to the bed as a tear moved down her cheek. "Grissom... I'm not sure I understand what you're saying. Why do you think you can't give what I want?"

"Do I really have to list all the reasons? Sara, I don't know where to begin. I'm older than you. I'm... not good with emotions. I'm your boss." Grissom sadly shook his head. "And even if I wanted to do...something with... this, I'm not sure if I'm in time. We've wasted so much time already. People can only wait so long before they... give up and move on."

Sara bit her lip down as she pondered how exactly she would respond. "We should not let our fears hold us back from pursuing our hopes."

"John F. Kennedy," Grissom said.

"You're afraid that we've spent too much time apart to ever have any hope. You're afraid that you've made so many mistakes that I could never forgive you, or give you another chance. You're wrong, Grissom. I could never drive away someone who, for some reason, has captured my heart more than anyone else in my life. It's not logical, it doesn't make any sense, but it just... is."

"Take me home, Grissom. We can't dance around this any more; tell me that you feel the same way I always have," she said, her brown eyes pleading with him.

The next few moments in time would be forever imprinted in both of their memories. Grissom looked deep into Sara's eyes, the emotions he had kept confined for years churning within. And then it happened.

Sara had occasionally wondered when their first kiss would take place. The romantic in her thought it would be on some isolated getaway, or perhaps after dinner. The realist in her thought it would be somewhere more down-to-earth; perhaps her apartment or his townhouse. She had never thought it would be like this.

It didn't matter to either one of them. It was fleetingly brief, but it felt like forever to the pair. As their lips parted, their eyes communicated silently, much as they had done before. The thought was the same for both.

_Thank you._

Light taps were heard from the door, giving the couple a chance to disengage from each other. A nurse came in and informed Grissom he had some paperwork to sign, which she left. It was only when she left that Grissom noticed that Sara looked obviously tired, like she had just come off a rough triple shift.

"Sara, when was the last time you slept or went home?" he asked.

"Ummm... when Greg dropped by?" she replied. That had been more than 24 hours ago.

"Sara... you're tired. I... know you're concerned for me, and I'm thankful. But you need to take care of yourself, too. Please?" he said.

Sara wanted to put up a fight, but when he saw the look on Grissom's face her resistance went away. "Okay, I guess I could use some sleep... I should go, my apartment's across town and the commute might take a while-"

She stopped when she realized that Grissom was holding something up with his finger. It was the keys to his townhouse.

"My townhouse is only a few blocks from here... I suppose you know the way there?" Grissom asked. Seeing her nod, he went on. "It's much easier for you since it's so close... and before you get into anything, I want you to see just what to expect. It's been a while since someone's been there except for me."

Sara simply nodded her assent. She knew how private Grissom was, and how much it meant that he would let her see his home without him around. "I'll see if I can get back before you're released," she said.

"Don't worry about it," Grissom reassured her. "I'm sure I can call someone to pick me up. I can probably even hail a taxi if I have to. Make sure you get your rest before coming here."

Sara took the keys from Grissom, gave him a smile, and left the hospital room. He just shook his head as she left the room. _She is so tired she'll probably end up sleeping right on the couch._ He went back to the journal as he waited to be released from the hospital.

---

The duplicate key slid into the lock as Grissom finally got back home. Catherine had been at the lab when Grissom had called her to retrieve a small plastic container inside his office that had duplicates of his house keys; that done the blonde had driven him home as well.

Walking inside, he found Sara sprawled on the brown sofa. Grissom thought he had never seen something so peaceful and beautiful; he could have just stayed there, taking in the beauty before him.

However, Grissom knew that it was a little cold in the main room. He got a spare blanket and covered Sara with it, taking care not to awaken the brunette. That done, he took a step back and observed his handiwork.

_Sleep well, Sara. I'm never going to do anything to hurt the ones I love ever again._

For the first time in many months, Sara Sidle slept quietly, the nightmares banished and distant from her mind.

---

The sounds of someone cooking awakened Sara from her pleasant dreams. Slightly disoriented, she rose from the sofa and realized where she was – and what she had heard. She turned and saw that Grissom was cooking up breakfast.

He gave her a smile as she walked over to the counter. Grissom slid over the plate of pancakes he had been preparing, and they both stood there, chewing down their respective meals.

Sara was quite impressed with his cooking. "I didn't know you were such a good cook. These are almost as good as the ones Mom makes back home," she said.

"Thank you," Grissom replied. "Being single and living alone means you can't count on fast food forever."

They ate in a comfortable silence before Sara finished her plate. She slid the plate aside and put her elbows on the granite counter. "Grissom, about what you said..."

He could see the fear in her eyes, that he would take back what had happened in that hospital room. That would not be the case today. "Sara, I meant everything I said in that hospital room. I'm not getting any younger, I can't keep living the same way I have for years. You could say I know what to do with... this know. What about you?"

"I've always known what to do; I was just waiting for you," Sara said. Their heads moved as if in a graceful ballet until their lips were almost touching. One final move from Grissom and they kissed once again.

This one was longer, more passionate, and not as rushed as their first one. As their lips parted, they could each see the love in each other's eyes. Neither one wanted to break the moment, which they would savor for a long time to come.

"Sara, we should drop by your apartment, I think," Grissom said.

"Huh?"

"Well, considering you need to change your clothes and I don't have any I can lend you, stopping by your apartment would seem to be a logical option."

"Oh! Yeah, you're right," Sara nodded.

"Then let's go," Grissom said as he set his own plate aside.

"Just one question. What do we do after that? I mean, we do have a day off, right?" Sara asked.

"Good question. What do you want to do?"

"Well, how about showing me around Las Vegas? For someone who's been here almost four years, I've seen very few of this city's attractions – outside of the job."

"Ever ridden a roller coaster?"

"Not since I was a kid. Besides, I don't see the appeal."

Grissom grinned. "If after a ride on the Manhattan Express you still don't see the appeal, you have no chance of getting it."

"Are you challenging me?"

"Are you accepting?"

"Alright. If I vomit, though, it'll be your fault."

"You won't," Grissom said confidently.

---

Warrick was returning his field kit to the back of the SUV when something caught his eye. Beside it was another vehicle that was identical to the one he was driving.

"Hey Catherine," Warrick called out. "Check that out. Isn't that Grissom's SUV?"

"Yeah, it is," she replied. "Must be out riding the coaster here at the New York, New York."

"Well, I don't claim to know everything about our boss, but I doubt that belongs to him," Warrick said, pointing to a small green purse on the front seat.

Catherine gave it a once-over. "Oh, that's Sara's. I've seen her stuffing it in her locker. She must be riding the Express with Grissom, I guess."

It took a full second for both to realize just what Catherine had said. When they did, a knowing grin appeared on both of their faces.

---

Grissom closed the folder on his desk, quite pleased that his paperwork was done for the day. Shift was winding down, and it had been a fairly quiet one. Catherine, Nick, and Warrick were mostly done with investigating the shooting; Brass was now running down the leads on that one. He and Sara had stayed on call all night, but there had been nothing that needed their attention.

"Hey," Sara called from the door. "Heading home?"

"Yeah, the paperwork is even less inviting than usual," Grissom dryly replied.

"Tell me about it," Sara said.

Grissom came up with another of his seemingly endless non sequiturs. "Sara, I think I owe you a dinner."

Sara nodded while faintly smiling. "Yeah, I think you do."

"Drop by your place at – would seven work?"

"Yeah, yeah, it would. I'll see you then, Grissom," Sara said as she headed for the locker room.

Grissom could only smile as he watched the brunette leave.

---

To be continued...


	9. Chapter 9

This is becoming an all-too familiar routine – I am really sorry that this chapter took so long, but the whole JF/GE mess sent my muse packing, and real-life biting me in the rear end didn't really help either. I hope anyone who reads this understands. Thanks to my faithful betas Anne and Ash, and there's no such thing as too little feedback.

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Grissom was up earlier than usual. It had been a while since he had been out on a date, let alone one that ended well. There was no other way to put it – he was nervous. It was the only explanation he was not sleeping at four in the afternoon, as he usually was.

The phone in the kitchen rang and he picked it up. "Grissom."

"It's Brass. I hope I didn't wake you up, because I've got something you'll want to see."

"Well, you didn't, but I've got something planned. Call someone else."

"Reconsider. I've got two words for you: Moriarty's back."

---

An annoyed Sara got out of her truck. Grissom was waiting for her on the curb.

"You've got to be kidding, right? This isn't a joke is it?" Sara asked.

"If it's a joke, it's not funny. Especially not for our DB." Grissom deadpanned.

The pair crossed the crime scene tape and saw Brass just outside the door, supervising the organized chaos that was a crime scene. He looked up when he saw the approaching duo.

"Your vic's in the bathroom. Name's Jeffrey McCaffrey, age 30. Anonymous tip."

"How anonymous, Jim?" Grissom asked.

"Pay phone anonymous. Moriarty himself called it in, I bet."

"Wouldn't bet against it. Officers only went in to secure the scene; we're ready for you guys." Grissom and Sara both moved towards the door, but Brass stopped them. "Grissom, can I talk to you for a moment? Sara can do the walk-through."

Grissom gave Brass a look, but he relented. He nodded to Sara, who took the two steps up to the small bungalow. Eventually, the two were left alone on the small porch.

"I read Catherine's preliminary report on the lab shooting," the police captain began.

"Yeah," Grissom replied. "She already told me."

"Then you know what it says about your initial reaction."

"Yeah. I can't explain it. I've spent years as a criminalist. It's not the first time I've had a gun pointed at me. I've dealt with something like that before. I'm not sure there is an explanation."

"Gil, I don't blame you. You're a scientist, not a cop. Sure, you CSIs are armed. Sure, Nick Stokes shoots better than most of the PD. At the end of the day, though, you're not supposed to be in something like that. That's our job, not yours," Brass said, in effect absolving Grissom of any blame in the shooting – not that there was really any to begin with.

Grissom entered the small bungalow, and found Sara in the living room, having completed her walkthrough. "Nothing too suspicious. Some uneaten food in the kitchen. No signs of forced entry, so our vic must have let the killer in."

"Another disguise, possibly. Let's see the body," Grissom said.

The CSIs entered the bathroom and saw the body. He was laying face-up in the shower stall that doubled as a bathtub. The victim didn't have any clothing on, and the all-too-familiar postcard was tied to a finger.

"No gunshot wounds, no stab wounds. No obvious physical injuries," Grissom noted.

"Correct that," Sara said. She pointed to two small burn marks on his arm. "Taser marks, maybe?"

"Well, a taser isn't enough to kill someone. It would explain why there are no defensive wounds, but we still don't have a cause of death."

"Puncture wound. Looks like from a needle, perhaps. He injected something into our vic."

"Could be air. Could be snake venom. Let's dust for prints," Grissom said. Sara handed over the jar of red fingerprint powder, and they both brushed the edges of the bathtub with it, looking for prints. There were none; the tub had clearly been wiped down to remove any potential evidence.

Brass came into the room just then. "I just got a call from O'Riley. He went over to the armored truck company our vic works for. According to the manager, he reported for work about two hours ago."

"That doesn't make sense. How could someone dead turn up for work?" Sara asked.

"Sara... what would be the standard description for our victim?" Grissom answered.

The junior CSI was perplexed by the question, but answered it anyway. "White, Caucasian, around 200 pounds, slightly over six feet in height, sandy blonde hair. Nothing out of the ordinary, could blend in almost anywhere."

"Sounds like our description for Moriarty," Grissom said.

"So... what are you saying? Is this guy our Moriarty?"

"No, I don't think so. But, he could be posing as our vic at his job."

The trio moved out of the bathroom so that they could examine the bedroom. Brass pulled out his cellular phone to make some calls, while Grissom used his ALS on the bed. Sara went to the closet, where she quickly found something.

"Guys," she said, calling out for the two men. "Take a look at this." She was peering into the closet, examining the victim's clothes. It was dominated by the off-gray uniforms, but in between them there was an empty clothes hanger. "One of the uniforms is missing."

"Call the company," Grissom said. "Jeffrey McCaffrey may be at work at this very moment."

---

Grissom was right. The grey truck pulled out of the Bellagio and headed for the airport – or so it seemed.

Moriarty, posing as Jeffrey McCaffrey, was up front driving. He was alone; the two other guards where in the back, probably bored to death. It wasn't unusual for the guards to catch some sleep, if that was possible for them.

_What incredible luck, isn't it? A guard who just happens to be very close to my physical description draws driving duty on a truck carrying millions of dollars in cash._

_When you're good, you're lucky. And I know I'm damn good._

The guards in the back couldn't see outside very well, so they weren't aware when the van took a right when it should have taken a left.

The truck continued making its way through the streets of Las Vegas, eventually coming to a stop in a neighborhood filled with rather cheap and run-down apartments. They halted next to a vacant lot.

The two guards were alarmed, and tried to call for the driver on the internal radio. There was no response. One of them banged his fist hard on the steel plate near the cab, but it was all for naught.

They were surprised when the door at the back suddenly opened. They didn't have time to react before they fell down in a bloody heap, shot in the chest. The sounds had been masked by a speeding car, which had rolled past the parked truck just at that moment.

_That was quite a coincidence. That car covered any noise my gun made pretty well. Now, time for the loot._

He climbed into the back and saw the money – inside sacks, with money bands stamped with the crests of various casinos keeping the cash in stacks of 100 bills each.

_I have hit the jackpot. How much money is in here – 10 million dollars, at least? Now, to get it to my vehicle..._

The van had the livery of a business on the side – one that didn't exist. It took three trips for him to move all four sacks into the van. In any other neighborhood, it would have attracted attention but here, it didn't. People minded their own business here.

The white van pulled out of the lot, leaving behind the armored truck and the two corpses. It wasn't a moment too soon, for only a minute later a police car pulled up behind the abandoned vehicle. Brass had put out an all-points bulletin, or APB, out for the armored car. The two officers carefully approached the car, guns out in front of them.

The senior cop had been a cop for all of his adult life, and thus wasn't too surprised by the bloody sight before him when he pulled the back door open. He wasn't too fazed by the blood and gore he saw – until he heard a moan from one of the bodies. One of the guards was still alive, but just barely.

The officer was, for the first time in his professional career, shocked.

---

Catherine and Warrick crossed the crime tape and saw Grissom jump out from the back of the armored van. Sara came out from the front just then, and the four CSIs began an impromptu conference not far from the vehicle that had become a crime scene.

"Where are Nick and Greg?" Grissom asked.

"Caught in traffic. They're on their way," Catherine said. "He hit an armored van? How did that happen?"

"He first killed the driver at home earlier today, then posed as him. Van was taking older bills from the Bellagio to McCarran for disposal. He drove them out here, shot the two guards out back, and took the money. He must have had a spare vehicle parked in the lot over there," Grissom said.

"Must have taken a while to get all the information he needed to pull this off," Sara added. "We don't have anything new from the van. Forensically, it's a dry hole."

"Alright. Cath, Warrick, check the lot, see if there's any evidence there. I'll send Nick and Greg to Desert Palm-" Grissom said, before Warrick interrupted him.

"Desert Palm? I thought the guards were shot."

"They were," Grissom replied. "David took one back for Robbins already. The other one is in critical condition."

"Damn," Catherine said. "We have an eyewitness."

"Yeah. He slipped up again. Let's go to work," Grissom said. Warrick and Catherine moved to the lot, while Grissom noticed that Sara had moved several steps towards the middle of the road. He moved beside her.

"Grissom, we could have two eyewitnesses," Sara said.

Grissom's eyes moved to the object Sara had been looking at. It was a yellow box with lens beside a streetlight.

"Speeding camera," Grissom said. "It's a long shot, but it's worth a try."

"I'll head back for the lab and check out the records," Sara said.

"Wait up," Grissom said. "I should head back anyway, go over what we've collected. And I need to think."

"About what?"

"We still don't understand how he thinks, Sara. He commits one crime after another, but we still have no idea why. We can't stop him if we're always one step behind."

"We may not want to know where he's going, Grissom."

---

Sara reached for her coffee as she examined yet another photo of a speeder captured on film. The computer database for the photos of the cameras was organized by date, but not by the camera that had taken the photo. As a result, Sara had had to wade through all the images taken in Clark County for the one-hour period between the departure of the van from the Bellagio and the arrival of the police.

Just as she took a sip of her coffee, she found what she had spent the past few hours looking.

The photo showed the armored truck parked by the side of the road – and behind it, there was Moriarty, his hands out before him, pistol in his hand. His face was clearly visible.

Sara zoomed in on the picture and clicked a few buttons to enhance the picture. She went to her notes, only looking up when a beep told her the enhancement was done.

She looked up at the enhanced picture and frowned. Sara had an almost perfect memory, and she was sure she had seen it before. She just wasn't sure where.

_Harvard, maybe? Yeah, I think I saw him during some of my math classes... can't be sure, and it's not something we can really use._

Sara went back to her notes and tried to make sense of another piece of evidence left at the scene. It was the same postcard left at the previous scenes, but there was a difference: on the back was written the number 6174.

Just then, the dots came together in Sara's mind. _Wait a minute... 6174 isn't just any ordinary number. It does mean something._

She opened the Internet browser, checking if the vague memory from a math class more than ten years ago was correct. It was, and she stood from her chair looking for Grissom. She found him heading for the garage.

"What do you have?" he asked.

"We got lucky – the speeding camera captured our suspect just as he shot the two guards. Did Nick and Greg get anything from the survivor?"

"Doctor won't let them – still recovering from surgery. Bobby already checked the bullets out – same type the guards use for their own guns. Picture good enough for ID?"

"Oh yeah. I'll let Brass have it and send it out to all the major hotels and casinos," Sara said. "One more thing. Our suspect may be a mathematician."

"Reason?"

"The number he left on the postcard isn't just any number. It's a Kaprekar number-"

"Discovered in 1949 by an Indian mathematician. If you re-arrange the digits of most four-digit numbers from highest to lowest and subtract the same number, but with the digits from lowest to highest, you'll get another four-digit number. Keep repeating the process, and you end up with-"

"6174. For example, start with 5644, 6544 minus 4456 is 2088, 8820 minus 288 is 8532, 8532 minus 2358 is 6174."

"It's not that advanced mathematically. Doesn't prove our guy is a mathematician."

"Grissom, I've seen the guy before. Nothing I can take to court, but I swear I've seen him before."

That caused Grissom to stop in his tracks. With anyone else, he would have ignored it as a coincidence – something he didn't believe in. With Sara, though, he knew there was _something_ to back it up, even if it wasn't usable in court. "Where?" Grissom asked.

"College. Can't put a name on it, but I swear, I saw him in one of my math classes."

Grissom just raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't really help. Harvard's a big place."

"I know, but it's something to think about." The two were now inside the garage. Sara could see that a van from the coroner was set up on jacks, as if they were about to take tire prints.

"Grissom, what's this about?" Sara asked.

"Catherine and Warrick recovered two sets of tire prints at the scene. Same type, so we think they're both from the getaway vehicle. However, one set of prints appears to be from deflated tires. We need to know how flat his tires were – it might tell us if he had to make stops at any nearby gasoline stations. This truck is close in size to the truck actually used, and we've put in enough weight inside to estimate how much money was taken. So, all we have to do is deflate one tire a little bit at a time, take the print, and see which one matches the one they found."

"You do realize this could take a while, right?"

"Well, we still have most of shift left. Shall we?"

Sara could only nod in surrender.

---

Sara wiped the sweat from her forehead using the sleeve of her blue coveralls. Taking tire prints was never an easy affair; the heavy vehicle and the number of prints they had needed had made the task that much harder.

Grissom looked at the final tire print and compared it with the sample Catherine had taken. It was a perfect match. "The tire was about as flat as we could make it and still allow the vehicle to drive away," he said.

"It wouldn't have stayed that way for very long," Sara said. "He must have had to inflate the tire somewhere in the area."

"Call Brass. Have him check gas stations in the immediate area."

"Got it."

---

Nick and Greg strode into AV room. Grissom and Sara were waiting for the pair.

"We have the video – and more. Greg has it," Nick announced.

Greg had a flair for the dramatic, and he slowly removed something from a brown evidence bag. It was a 9mm pistol.

"Beretta 9mm. Same type the guards carried," Sara said.

"It gets better. There were twelve rounds in the magazine; full capacity is fifteen. Add one in the chamber, and you've got four bullets missing."

"Same number used on the guards. Greg, take it to Ballistics for comparison," Grissom ordered. The former nodded and left the AV lab.

"Cue the videotape up," Sara said. Soon, the tape was playing on the large screen inside.

On the screen, the white van pulled up next to one of the pumps. The driver – it seemed that it was Moriarty – was dressed in the coveralls so favored by utility workers and refueled his vehicle. That done, he bent down, grabbed the nearby air hose, and pumped the nearly flat tire full of air.

It wasn't much, but they had something new: the plate number of the van. Nick quickly ran it through the DMV database.

"That's strange," the Texan said. "Registered owner matches the business painted on the side."

"It's not stolen?" Sara asked.

"Nope," Nick replied.

"Check the city and state databases for permits, local taxes, that sort of thing," Grissom ordered.

More keystrokes followed, but Nick soon had a frown on his face. "The company's registered here, but beyond that, I can't find anything."

"Shell company?" Sara speculated.

"Looks that way," Nick said.

"Owners?" Grissom asked.

"Another company, not registered in Nevada. Grissom, I think this is a little beyond our expertise," Nick said.

"This sounds like money laundering," Grissom said.

"Why would a money launderer be involved? I don't get it. The more we find out, the less sense it makes," Sara said.

"It may not make sense to us, but it makes sense to someone," Grissom replied.

---

The next day, Grissom rubbed his forehead as he went over the Moriarty case. Some progress had been made, but not much.

Archie had taken the photo of Moriarty from the speeding camera and enhanced it until it looked like it had been captured by a professional photographer. Now every casino and hotel knew what Moriarty looked like. Grissom doubted, however, that Moriarty would really expose himself that way.

The other lead they had was the plate number from the getaway van. Brass was now trying to run down the ownership of the van, but it had proved more difficult than expected. The business that owned the van had been the gateway into a nest of shell companies. The detectives were having a very hard time with that one.

Grissom was startled by the knock from his door. It was Brass.

"Our federal brethren aren't always useless," the cop said. "Evidently, the shell companies were already under investigation by the FBI. There may be links to the Russian mob."

"Doesn't tell us how to catch him, Jim."

"Well, this might. One of the companies in the network owns a warehouse just outside of town. I've got an invitation to drop by," Brass said as he held up a search warrant.

Grissom stood up from his chair and was about to head for the exit when Brass spoke up again. "One more thing. Guess who was one of the warehouse's previous occupants. Paul Milander."

"Paul Milander?" Grissom asked, astonished.

"After he vanished, city seized it and tried to sell it off. No buyers, though. Couple of months ago, some outfit ponies up the money and takes the title, no questions asked.

"And the plot thickens," Grissom said.

"Yeah, well, this plot's about to come to a screeching halt. SWAT's on the way. Let's go."

---

To be continued...


	10. Chapter 10

Alright, it's been months since the last update... college life is not treating me well. Thanks go out to my patient betas Anne and Ash, and feedback is welcome - especially since I've got another story forming in my mind.

-----------------------------------

_Sometimes even spooks are useful,_ Moriarty thought as he sat in his warehouse. _They taught me a lot about how not to get caught. If you can avoid the FBI, you can avoid ordinary cops._

Moriarty had taken several steps to avoid capture. One was a rather expensive scanner that monitored emergency frequencies. While some police radios were encrypted, most were not; it allowed him to ensure that the police weren't looking too closely in his direction.

If the police ever came onto him, Moriarty thought, he would use the red compact he kept inside the warehouse. He had bought the car from a used-car lot with cash, but had not used it since then. He kept documents for several aliases inside, along with several days worth of clothing.

All he had to do to escape was get in the car, drive to McCarran, and hop on a flight to a major hub. Denver, Los Angeles, San Francisco or Chicago were all possibilities. From there it was a simple matter of flying abroad to another city – the wonders of international travel would take care of the rest.

Right now he was bent over a map, analyzing times and distances from various Las Vegas landmarks to possible safe houses and staging points. He didn't have any targets in mind, but with a city like Las Vegas the potential list was limitless.

He wondered what he should do next. _A sniper, maybe? No, I'm not that good with a gun. Besides, that's not a particularly... smooth way of doing it. No, there are other ways to create chaos._

_It's not about that anymore, is it? It's all a game now. It's between you and the police. They've been surprisingly uncompetitive. Isn't Las Vegas supposed to have the number-two crime lab in the country? You expected more from them; you thought they'd be a challenge – a worthy opponent._

_Well, you've been careful after all. The best crime lab in the world can't do anything if they don't have anything to work with. Gil Grissom is good, but he can't create evidence where there is none._

He rose from his chair and decided to get himself a drink when he heard the police scanner. A regular patrol car was ordered to watch out for any suspicious vehicle in the area around the warehouse. That wasn't out of the ordinary, but the warning at the end was: "approach with caution."

Moriarty thought about staying here, but he decided against it. There was nothing here that was truly irreplaceable. It was a superb place to think without the possibility of being observed. _However,_ he thought, _this could be a problem. Time for me to go._

As he drove out of the warehouse, he realized his work wasn't finished. Much as he wanted to leave the city, he couldn't. His still had much to do. He still hadn't truly achieved a crime of infamy that would be remembered. He had been clever, yes. That wasn't what people remembered, and that was what he craved more than anything else.

_I've always wanted to go inside a pyramid,_ he mused.

---

The two police trucks rolled to a stop and the black-clad SWAT troopers jumped out of them, assault rifles at the ready. Several yards behind them, Brass and other uniformed cops had their handguns out. Behind that stood the entire CSI graveyard shift, ready to process the warehouse once it was clear.

The SWAT personnel broke into the warehouse, guns at the ready. Inside, they found a large van, maps over a table, modest living accommodations, but no Moriarty. The disappointment was evident in the team leader's voice as he called it in. The mood among all the people present darkened as the news spread.

The CSIs buckled down to work soon enough. They all entered the warehouse, with Grissom being the first through the small door. The others were soon spread out behind him, examining the scene with trained eyes.

Grissom was struck by a weird sense of deja vu. The whitewashed walls and sparse setting hadn't changed much, if at all, since Paul Milander had abandoned it years ago. Today, it had served as the hideout for another criminal who seemed to be one step ahead of the Las Vegas Crime Lab.

He sighed quietly before turning to the other members of his team. "This could take a while."

---

Catherine, Sara, Nick, Warrick, and Greg were all tired as they sat in the break room. They had pulled another long double shift to process everything at the abandoned warehouse, and they had all the evidence they needed to prosecute Moriarty for each and every crime they knew of.

The dead bum, discovered almost two weeks ago that had started the whole case in Las Vegas. The security guard, shot while patrolling the UNLV campus. The theft at the university's marine science building. The bomb sent to Director Covallo's office. The robbery of the Rampart. The breach of their internal computer network. The shooting at the crime lab. Last, but not the least, the interception of the armored car. The evidence was all there, proving that Moriarty had done it.

There was just one problem – Moriarty was nowhere to be found. Worse, they had no idea where he was. It was as if he had just vanished, leaving no evidence for them to work with. It was the most frustrating thing the CSIs had ever felt in their professional careers.

Proof of how badly beaten they had been lay on the table. Three passports had been found inside the warehouse. Each one came from a different country, and had a different name on them. It was something a spy would do, and catching a spy was not an easy thing under the best of circumstances.

The worst thing was that the names on the passports made them nearly useless for tracking down Moriarty's real identity. People tended to adopt aliases that were close to their real names, but the names on these passports were either generic or obviously fake ones. The Russian one belonged to Iosef Andreyevich Serov – who had been the head of the KGB during the early years of the Cold War. The British one bore the name of Joseph Andrew Brown. The American one had Joseph Demetrius as its rightful holder.

Catherine finally broke the silence. "I don't know about you guys, but I just wish this case would end," she said.

"Not this way, though. We've got all the evidence in the world – but no suspect to link it to," Warrick said.

"Come on, guys, we've still got the wanted posters out there. There's still a chance," Nick said.

"Yeah, true. We've got a poster that matches about half of the male population. We've got all the evidence we need – and we've got nothing at the same time," Warrick replied.

Catherine turned. "What do you think, Sara?"

"I don't know," she replied. She paused before going on. "You know what's bothered me about this whole case? I've run into this guy three times already. First he rapes my roommate and best friend in Boston. Then he checks into San Francisco. Five years later, he drops by Vegas. Why?"

"Coincidence, maybe?" Greg asked.

"No such thing as a coincidence, Greg," Catherine replied. "First thing you learn as a CSI. There's a reason for everything, even if you don't know what it is."

"I'm not sure we want to know," Sara said.

After another short silence which seemed like an eternity, Nick spoke up. "We're all off the clock. How 'bout we get some food before we all head for home?"

Catherine looked around and saw nods all around the table. "Alright. Any objections?"

"No," said Sara.

"Then what are we waiting for?"

---

On the other side of the building, Brass and Grissom were in the former's office, with much the same thoughts on their mind.

"What do you think, Grissom? Is he in Vegas or not?" Brass asked.

"Wise money is that he's escaped, Jim," Grissom replied with a shrug. "But somehow, I think he's still here."

"Gil Grissom, relying on a hunch? I never thought I'd see that," Brass said as he took a sip from his bourbon.

"It's not a hunch. It's based on the evidence. What's one of the few things we know about our suspect? It's that he likes the attention, almost like he's an egomaniac. He was planning something when we forced him to pack up. He may well still be in Vegas."

"Is that something you'd take to a DA?"

Grissom just shook his head. "No. It's nothing more than my intuition at work. The evidence is equivocal, at best."

"You think we'll ever catch him?"

Grissom took a sip from his bourbon. "The Greeks had this saying. Whom the gods wish to destroy, they first make proud. That's what we're up against. He's going to keep on committing crimes, thinking he'll never be caught. And it might take a while. Somewhere down the line, though, he'll make a mistake, and some cop or CSI will be in the right place at the right time to catch him."

"Doesn't sound easy."

"I never said it was."

---

Nick and Warrick were handing over their payment for that morning's breakfast when someone's cellular phone rang. Everyone's attention went to their units before Sara said it was hers. She stepped away for about a minute to answer the call, and returned to the group with a look of puzzlement on her face.

"What was that about?" Catherine asked.

"Grissom. He wants me back at the lab ASAP," Sara answered.

"Did he say what it was about?" Nick wondered.

"He said he couldn't talk about it over the phone."

"And the plot thickens," Greg said, before receiving a glare of death from Sara.

"Yeah, well, since Sara here left her car at the lab and I pass by the lab on the way home anyway, I guess I'll drop her off," Nick said.

"Okay then. Bye guys," Catherine said as the breakfast group broke up.

---

The bellman had been born on an Iowa farm and was more used to handling cows than suitcases – and it showed as he manhandled the luggage from the car's trunk, up some stairs, and into an elevator. He banged the small overnighter against the sides as he pushed the button to the tenth floor. The faulty zipper broke open and some of the contents spilled out onto the floor, eliciting a curse as he hit the emergency stop button.

Bending down to put the spilled objects into the bag, a small glint caught his eye. It was a passport – no, two of them, he realized. _Wait a minute_, his mind instantly told him. _Why would someone have two passports? From different countries?_

Fifteen minutes later, the passports were on the desk of the Tangiers's head of security. Bill Altman had once been a senior NYPD detective, and he knew exactly what the passports meant. He had worked with the Counter-Intelligence Division of the FBI during his time in the Big Apple, and he knew that the passports meant he was dealing with a spy – or at least, someone who knew how to act like a spy.

While wondering what he should do next, he idly flipped one passport open. When he saw the picture on it, a light bulb went off in his head.

Someone inside his hotel had multiple passports. Usually, only spies had such things. However, Altman thought that unlikely.

He had another suspect in mind. Like the rest of Las Vegas, he had heard of Moriarty. It was impossible not to, given the wall-to-wall coverage the media had given the case.

Altman realized Moriarty was on the loose. Could he be staying right under his noses?

The rotund boss moved as quickly as he could to the camera room, where guards maintained a constant vigil if the cameras that dotted any major casino. One of them had been ordered to follow Moriarty around.

"Well?" Altman asked.

"Still on one of the no-limit blackjack tables. He's ahead, but he's either counting cards or he's just damn lucky," the former police sergeant said.

The person on the camera then turned towards the lens he didn't know was there, and presented the viewers with a prefect angle for identification. Altman was especially good with faces, and he knew this was a face he'd seen before.

He grabbed a piece of paper from a nearby pile and held it up to the screen. It took a brief moment for the ex-officer to see what he was seeing. "Goddamn," he said. "Of all the gin joints in all the world..."

Both the paper and the screen had the face of Moriarty on it.

Moriarty had made a mistake. Bill Altman, formerly of the New York Police Department, had been in the right place and the right time to make him pay for it.

The rat was about to be caught, and he didn't even know it.

---

Brass led the small contingent of brown-clad LVPD officers up the flight of stairs from the basement as Grissom and Sara followed a few meters behind. They met up with Altman, who escorted them inside the casino floor until only a door separated them from Moriarty.

"There he is, Captain, He's all yours," the former G-man said.

"Let's go," Brass said. With that, the group strode in, until Moriarty was surrounded by the police.

Moriarty looked up in surprise, but he kept his calm. "Officers, I haven't done anything wrong, unless winning from a casino is a crime," he said.

"John Doe," Brass said, "you're under arrest. For multiple counts of murder, frustrated murder, breaking and entering, and being an all-around crook."

"You must be mistaking me for someone else. I've done nothing wrong."

"Then explain why you have two passports in different names, from different countries, all with your nice mug on them," Brass replied.

The cocky look on Moriarty's face was replaced by shock, but he quickly recovered. "You searched my luggage. You don't have a warrant. All your evidence is worthless now."

"Actually, we didn't search your luggage. It fell out. Plain sight. We don't need a warrant," Grissom said.

"Take him away," Brass said to the uniformed officers.

The two CSIs watched as Moriarty was stood up – perhaps a little roughly – by the two officers and cuffed. Brass led the knot of policemen down the corridor, attracting some attention from the gamblers on the floor, but not much.

"That's that," Grissom said to Sara.

"Yeah," she said with a nod.

---

It took several hours, but the one remaining mystery about Moriarty – his real name – was soon solved.

One of the passports had, amazingly enough, turned out to be real. It belonged to a Leslie Williamson. He had been born to a family of modest means, but his intelligence had been evident from the start. Scholarships had given him entry to Harvard, where he had chosen theoretical math.

While there, he had become intrigued by patterns. He had come to believe that there was some sort of logical pattern to everything, even numbers. However, years of searching the arcane language of high-level math theory had proved fruitless, and it had driven him mad. Frustrated in his professional career, he had somehow turned against society, believing himself to be superior in intelligence and capable of any task, provided he put his mind to it. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Moriarty had, indeed, been an appropriate alias.

Brass slid his chair out and left the interrogation room, looking visibly tired. He had spent the past two hours interrogating Williamson, and he had been as tough as anyone the captain had faced, but he had cracked. It would take many days, but he would give up all of his secrets.

The five CSIs of the graveyard shift had been on the other side of the one-way glass, with nary a word spoken during the entire procedure. Grissom and Sara were standing right next to the glass, while Catherine, Warrick, and Nick, were all sitting on the small table in the middle of the room.

Brass entered the room and visibly leaned on the door frame. "I don't know about you," he said, "but that is the most difficult interrogation I've done in a while."

"Yeah," Catherine said in agreement. "Worst I've ever witnessed, too."

"You know," Nick said, "Stuff like this isn't supposed to happen in real life. It almost seems like it comes from a movie."

"Well, there's an old saying out there, man. Truth is stranger than fiction," Warrick said. "This guy is all the proof we need."

"What do you think, Sara?" Catherine asked.

"I dunno," Sara said after considering the question. "What bothers me most is that he was once a normal college student. He had a good home, good family, the brains to get anywhere. I don't get it. What happened?"

"Some people are just born bad, Sara," Warrick said.

"I'm not sure," Grissom said. "At the DNA level, all humans are more than 99 identical. Even a chimpanzee shares 98 of our genetic code. The point is, whatever differences that do exist are very small. We're not as different from him as we'd like to think."

"So what's you're answer, Grissom?" Catherine asked.

"You know what makes us different from other mammals? It's our ability to learn. There's no other creature in the world that can learn as well a human. But learning really comes from mistakes. When most people make a mistake, they figure out what went wrong and don't do it again."

"But Leslie Williamson isn't most people," Sara said.

"Exactly. He didn't fix his mistakes; in a way he became his mistakes. Why?" Grissom shrugged. "We may never know."

With that, everyone in the small viewing room turned to look towards Leslie Williamson, all trying to solve the mystery of his fate.

---

There was still one loose end that had to be tied up, but Grissom had the connections needed to fill in the last blank in the case.

Sara had come in early, as was her habit, and was surprised to see Grissom behind his desk, examining what looked to be a fairly think folder open before him.

"Hey, you busy?" Sara asked.

"Not really. Remember what you told me about having met our suspect sometime in Harvard?"

"Yeah. What's this about?"

"Well, since we now have his name, I had on old colleague of mine over at Harvard pull some strings. They sent me everything they had on Mr. Willamson."

"Oh. Is there anything new in it?"

"Well, yes. It explains the one thing we weren't sure about before."

"Why he followed me from Boston, to San Francisco, to Las Vegas," Sara said.

"You both attended some sort of seminar in Boston, just before you graduated. Theoretical math."

"Oh yeah, I remember about that one. At the time, I thought it was quite fascinating."

"You weren't the only one who remembered it well. Evidently he found you a fascinating character."

"I just thought he was a bit... I don't know. Crazy. Everyone knew he was smart, maybe even a genius. They just weren't sure if he was, well, nuts."

"Well, he was. One week after the seminar, he left Harvard. The next place he turned up was San Francisco."

"Doesn't answer the question. Why did he follow me, of all the people he could? If all he wanted to do was make himself well-known, he could have done something else."

"I don't know," Grissom said. "Maybe in his descent to madness he tried to hang on to the last remnants of his sanity, as he remembered it. Perhaps you were part of that memory."

"Scary thought."

"Yeah. We may not really want to know what he's thinking," he said. Noting the folder Sara was carrying, he asked, "What's in there?"

"I have something for you to sign," she said. "You might want to go over it first, though. It's important," she added.

Curious, Grissom got the folder from Sara. He opened it and closely examined the papers inside.

He looked up into Sara's eyes when he realized what they were. They were matching applications for leave – one was for her, but the other was for him. All that was missing were his signatures.

"I was thinking about what happened a few days ago, when we were supposed to, you know, go out," she said. "I realized that as long as we're here, in Las Vegas, we'll have a hard time starting anything. I mean, we're on call 24/7. What do we do when we get a call in the middle of a date? How can we really have a good time when it's more than likely our pagers will go off in the middle of a movie?"

"Alright, I see your point. But what does that have to do with this?" Grissom asked.

"We've both got more leave on hand than we can use. So why don't we just take some time off, you know, to see if we can make things work. Somewhere we can just be... just Gil and Sara. Not Supervisor Grissom and CSI Sidle."

_Gil and Sara._ The phrase clicked in Grissom's head. The last time Sara had called him by his first name was back when she been a student of his.

Sara saw the look on Grissom's face and knew that he had agreed. She smiled inside, thankful that he had not turned her down.

"Just one problem," Grissom said. "We don't have any reservations anywhere. Any ideas where we should go?"

"Sure. There's this small, intimate place near San Francisco Bay. Lots of small bike and hiking trails into the nearby hills. If the fog isn't too heavy, you can even see the Golden Gate Bridge. An excellent place to relax and get to know people," Sara replied.

A meaningful look appeared on Grissom's face, pondering Sara's answer. "Your parents' bed and breakfast?" he finally asked.

"Yeah. That's where I spent my time off."

"Well, I have another idea. Beach side bungalow, with ready access to the marina if you're so inclined. Beach is private, so you can go out for long, private walks there. Not to mention, two major-league baseball teams in the area."

"Let me guess. Your Mom's place?"

"Yeah. She's in Europe right now, on vacation. The gallery has half of the bungalow; she lives in the other half. I haven't been there in a while."

"So, let's compromise. The leave is for two weeks. Let's spend one week at my place, then a week at yours."

"Okay. I like that," Grissom said with a nod. "I'll see you when I give out the assignments, then."

"Okay thanks. I'll see you then, Grissom."

"Thanks, Sara."

Grissom could not have imagined the smile on Sara's face as she left his office.

---

Several days later, Catherine, Nick and Warrick were relaxing after shift at the nearby diner when Greg came through the door. They were going through their pancakes when Nick saw something in the sports pages that caught his eye.

"Hey guys," he said. "Isn't anyone curious where Griss and Sara are?"

"Come on, Nick, you really think they'd tell us where they went? Hell, we don't even know if they're together. Maybe it's just a coincidence," Catherine replied.

"Well, I'm pretty sure this isn't a coincidence," Nick said. He passed over the newspaper, pointing to a picture that occupied half of the page.

It had been taken from the Dodgers-Giants game the previous night. Barry Bonds had been his usual self and sent another ball into the bleachers, and the picture was of someone catching it quite neatly. It took Catherine a moment to realize than the brunette catching the ball was Sara. It took her another moment to realize who was beside her – Grissom.

"Well, I guess it's safe to say they've worked out their issues," Catherine deadpanned as she handed the paper to Warrick.

Brass arrived then. "Sorry I'm late, traffic was worse then usual," he said. "So, what did I miss?"

"Not much, Brass. Just this," Warrick said, passing the paper to the captain.

"Well, that's something to write home about," Brass said after examining the picture.

"Certainly took them long enough," Catherine added.

"Think they'll tell us when they get back?" Nick asked.

"I dunno. I doubt they can hide it for long, though," Warrick said.

"Hey, whether they tell us or not – that's their business. So long as they're happy, we're happy. I'd like to offer a toast," Catherine said as she raised her coffee. "May Grissom and Sara have many more happy days to come, to make up for all the hard times they've had."

"Amen." Everyone else said in unison.

---

THE END


End file.
